Dawn of a Dead Day
by aragstockedoldbastard
Summary: When the Third Day closes with the fall of the moon, the Mask Salesman and his young Scrub associate must strike a new deal - to survive the ReDead-strewn wastelands of a ruined Termina, and restore balance to the world. Their only hope lies in the heart of the storm - Ikana Canyon, land of the dead. Hard T for violence, language. *Chapter 10! We're in the double digits!*
1. Prologue: Final Hours

**PROLOGUE: FINAL HOURS**

The only thought that seemed true right then in Mutoh Magnussa's mind, of course, was that pride didn't count for a damn when there was no one around to see what you'd done.

The plaza was painted and bannered in rainbow colors, incense burned in every torch, the stalls stood where traders would pitch sugared fruits and ribbons of lace, and as far as he knew, only Mutoh himself took time to admire it.

He was leaning against the viewing tower that his boys had built a few days previous, his arms crossed, his short-sleeved workman's jacket floating open and his leggings cinched just a little too tightly. He was old in face and body but not in strength, and though he was leaning against the wall it was not for support but simply from resignation.

A while back there had been a few sounds of revelry coming from guards that had abandoned their duty and gone to get drunk—they'd chased each other around the plaza, their helmets atop their spears, their mindless smiles holding back sadness, trying not to look up. Definitely not to look up.

Mutoh looked up, and wasn't afraid to look up. He only brought his gaze away to spit every now and then.

There was no spot above that belonged to the sky.

Though there was not fear in him, it was that simple contradiction—that one could look skyward and see ground—that had started Mutoh's thoughts about pride, and what it was worth to stick by one's word.

Pride had kept him here this evening, even as the last of the merchants and shopkeepers shuffled out of the rear gate. Pride had kept him here after three separate guards had asked him to flee. A few short days ago, pride had made him pound a fist on Dotour's desk, and wave a finger at the Captain of the Guard, and say what he always said—"On with the Carnival!"

Now pride kept him in the town square, where last year and each year before, the people of the town had gathered to celebrate the opening of the festivities—a crowd so thick you could get lost in streets you'd known your whole life.

Tonight, with the great clock only a few ticks from midnight, there were three people there. Mutoh kept his place against the base of the viewing tower, the smell of rope and sawdust to keep him company. At the south end of the plaza, there was a solitary guard, who likely was thinking just the same thoughts that Mutoh was thinking.

And to Mutoh's left was the luckiest bastard in the world—a Scrub, half-buried in the Deku flower that could and likely would carry him to safety, tied parcels at the ready by his side, and a fish in his hands, plucked from the pond to his left. The Scrub twisted its hands, tearing the fish's head off, and at once snuffed the two pieces into its snout.

It spat the bones back into the pond, a few bubbles drifting away from its snout. It took embarrassment at this, and wiped its snout with a hand—"Pardon me, sir. Seems I've already packed my manners."

It took Mutoh a moment to realize the Scrub was talking to him, and a moment longer to figure out what it had said—he'd never been able to understand Scrubs with any success. He waved a hand to dismiss the offense—"No trouble at all. And even if it were, I'm not of a mood to make enemies."

"Hardly, sir, hardly." The Scrub stuck its hand into the pond again, searching for another fish.

Mutoh sighed and slumped against the viewing tower. He looked up at the taller tower before him, the one built of stone and tradition. The clock clicked on, deep thrums every half-second. There was a distant rumble. A short streak of fire crossed the sky.

The Scrub pointed to the fire—"Ah! Perhaps a moon's tear, you think?"

"No concern to me," Mutoh said. He pulled out his pipe and put it into his mouth. His hands did not shake, and he took pride in this.

The Scrub scanned the sky—"That's why I've been waiting here, myself. An associate of mine said he'd bring me one. Apparently the Astronomer up on the hill has one. It's for the wife, don't you know. She so enjoys things like that."

Mutoh grunted as he packed his pipe. At first he only filled it halfway—then when he remembered what his pride was making him do, he filled it all, and plucked a burning straw from the torchpost beside him to light his pipe. He tossed his half-full pouch to the base of the clock tower.

To his surprise, the door there opened—a red-haired man leaned out and eyed the pouch. He picked it up, and looked smartly at Mutoh—"Thank you!"—and at once slammed the door shut.

Mutoh stood there in confusion, pipe-smoke idly haloing his head.

The Scrub either did not notice, or did not care, as he went on—"But really it's a matter of culture, isn't it. It's in my blood for me to stay. The Oath of the Swamp Giant, do you know it?"

Mutoh sucked his pipe—"Hm?"

"The Oath of the Swamp Giant. 'To remain until the end'. The principle that all Scrubs hold to. Though really we don't need to _hold _to it, it's just there. Comes naturally. I must say, I don't know any of the other Oaths. What's the one for you men, the, ah… the Oath of the Canyon Giant, I believe? Quite an ominous one, isn't it?"

"No," Mutoh said—"We don't swear by the Canyon Giant. We're not Ikanan."

"But that's where you men come from, isn't it?"

"We came from there, yes. We don't swear by it. We swear the Oath to Order—'To hold the center, strong'. And by the Giants I'm holding it. Apart from the guards I'm the only man here holding the damned center."

"And you're also remaining to the end. A rather Scrubbish principle."

"I'll be here to the end, yes. I'll be here after the end. I'll end here myself."

"…_not _a very Scrubbish principle, I must say. I shall be here till the end, of course—but I do believe I'll ride out on the blastwave. Just as soon as—ah! But here he comes now!"

There came a gentle pattering sound from down the plaza—another Scrub, a younger one, came into view, cutting across the square toward the Scrub, holding a shining blue light in its hands—a moon's tear.

The first Scrub climbed out of his flower—"I see you've brought my specimen! Much obliged, sir." He accepted the moon's tear, and stowed it at once in one of his rucksacks—"The wife will be quite pleased, quite pleased indeed. I must say, I don't know how you ever could've convinced old Shikashi to part with it, but I suppose I'll just have to live with the curiosity, won't I?"

The young Scrub tapped his hands together, like he was waiting for something.

The first Scrub clapped his hands, making a sound like clacking wood—"Oh, but of course! Our arrangement. Well, here you are, sir." He reached into one of the sacks and produced a worn piece of parchment, and handed it to the young Scrub—"The flower is now yours. Now, I'm supposed to tell you all about how the pheromones in the flower will reject you at first, and make sure you understand the restrictions on the airspace over the market, but it all seems quite useless at this point, doesn't it?"

The young Scrub only nodded.

There was another gentle earthquake. The banners fluttered in the wind. Mutoh took another drag from his pipe.

The first Scrub finished his arrangements, and moved to stand beside Mutoh—"But that's what it is at heart, don't you think?"

"Hm?" Mutoh said.

"How useless all this becomes in the face of crisis. Well, not _useless_—just unimportant. My flower, _his _flower now, rather… it still has a use. It's _always _had a use. As a matter of fact, its usefulness is what gives it so much value. It's the only Deku flower in the marketplace, and it was mine. I had Scrubs and men alike bidding on its value, and I took no offers, I accepted no sum. It was too important to me. It was _mine_, do you understand me?"

Mutoh sighed deeply—"Yes. I do."

"But now, of course… things seem to have changed considerably. My flower is unimportant to me, since there's no more commerce. The moon's tear I have now probably isn't worth much, the moon seems to be spitting them out constantly these days. In just a few hours—_minutes _now, I believe—this town will no longer be here, so it'll serve no ventures either in business or leisure. Think about that, now. Soon, this town will be a wind at my back. So what value is it to me?"

Mutoh finished off his pipe, and tapped it against the torchpost beside him—"Get to your point."

"I believe that friends matter, sir. Friends, more than anything. Not oaths, nor property, nor business, nor my damned wife. Friends, sir—friends, and my life." He leaned in close, like he was making a shameful offer—"I… _value _my life, sir."

Mutoh nodded.

"I wonder if you do, too."

Despite himself, Mutoh nodded again.

"Then a partnership is in order, wouldn't you agree?"

"What sort of partnership?"

"A _living _partnership, sir. There are difficult times ahead of us, and as I have said, friends are the most valuable thing you can have, whether times are difficult or not. Take that boy, for instance—trotting around a doomed town without any company. He'll not last long, I guarantee you."

"I've seen him around, he has a fairy."

"Of course he has a fairy, we _all _have fairies, I used to sell them in bottles for two green. I mean a _true _partner. Someone at your back. Someone who'll keep you _alive_. In my experience, life has always, _always _been so much more impressive than death."

"And you'll do that for me?"

"Of course, sir. Frankly that's why I'm so disappointed in the boy. It's almost a crime that he doesn't have a partner. You always want to make a contract with a Scrub, sir. I think you know why, too."

Mutoh nodded—"Because you remain until the end."

The Scrub nodded, and offered his hand for a shake, and Mutoh took it. The Scrub did the closest thing it could to smiling—"We'll flee like cowardly bastards and feel none the worse for it."

Mutoh gritted his teeth at the shame—"But how? You just leased your flower."

"The boy only has one use for it. He plans to scale the clock tower. We shall use it again once he's gone."

At that moment, the clock chimed midnight, and the ancient machinery began to operate, twisting the tower into its festival arrangement, the giant clock face turning to the sky. Within the minute, it shuddered into place, sending out a manmade quake to match the moon-made ones.

The young Scrub crawled down into his flower—then sprang from it, petals helicoptering in the air, floating down to the viewing platform on the clock, and scaling the staircase there, heading for the clock face.

Fireworks shot off, reds and greens to illuminate the night.

Mutoh turned and looked up at the viewing tower one last time. The product of his carpenters, built to a soaring height in only the last three days. All of this, all the arrangements of the square… all had been done in only three days. A faster time than ever before—perhaps driven by panic at the prospect of a fallen moon.

But then, anything that could be done in such a short time couldn't be that important, could it? Nothing done in just three days could be worthy of too much pride.

Another earthquake—a _real _earthquake—came then. Mutoh stumbled and dropped his pipe, but the Scrub steadied him with his hand.

"Come on, now, no time to waste!" the Scrub said. He cut back to his flower, and picked up his bags—"You'll be carrying these for me, if it's alright with you. Or if it's not alright, either. Frankly I think it's too late to argue this."

Mutoh picked up the parcels without a word. The Scrub climbed into the flower and adjusted himself, then stuck a hand out. Mutoh took it.

The Scrub looked upward—"This will be a bit of a jolt, so be sure to hold on tight."

Before Mutoh could respond, he was in the air, dangling at arm's length beneath the Scrub, soaring over the marketplace, lifted higher and higher by the Scrub's petal-rotor. He looped the rucksacks over his shoulder and reached up to grab with both hands, the living wood flexing to grip him as well.

Mutoh looked down a final time at the marketplace, the place he'd left his pride. Before they'd flown too far to see, he witnessed one last peculiarity—the man inside the clock tower emerged, and went to pick up Mutoh's pipe. He seemed to be carrying a shovel.

After that, they were flying above the empty city streets, and the unmanned city walls, and then the fields of Termina, cutting away from the town, away from the moon, toward where the sun would rise. Toward the great Stone Tower, visible even at fifty miles' distance. Toward Ikana.

Ikana, home to the dead, and the Canyon Giant, whose oath was the simplest—"To last."

The impact came with the rising sun. Mutoh did not see it, but felt it inside him as much as out. There was a quaking feeling in him, a deep and desperate anger. Prideless anger. The impact was not quick or stunning, but a constant deafening rumble. A civilization's death-rattle.

Before long the shockwave hit them, and they flew yet faster, yet further, dust and debris flowing behind them, and a fire like another sun was rising from the west. Every leaf on every tree shook.

And the heat… if Mutoh Magnussa lived out the rest of his years, he would never forget the heat.

Mutoh's arms had grown sore, and he moved to adjust his grip, but instead slipped, dangling with only one hand now. Now the sickness in his gut was matched with terror.

The Scrub looked down at him, and over the roar of the rending earth Mutoh heard him speak—"Don't you fall, damn you! We remain until the end! Don't you fall!"

He didn't—his hands did not shake, and he took pride in this.


	2. Chapter One: A Terrible Fate

**ONE: A TERRIBLE FATE**

_"It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out."_

_ —Hunter S. Thompson_

If he'd never felt like shit before, he definitely did now.

There was a feeling between his eyes like fire, and he brought a hand to his face to rub at it. He groaned.

He was lying on a cold stone floor, and not far off was the sound of a stream. The air was heavy with dust and mildew. Not far off, there was the sound of a small fire, and the smell of eggs cooking.

He wanted to roll over onto his other side and return to sleep, but something inside him told him he couldn't. Some sense of urgency that seemed beyond him... a sense he'd felt before, deep inside himself. In a half-dreaming daze he remembered something he'd heard once—_"Can Hyrule's destiny really depend on such a lazy boy?"_

Then the memories hit him so hard it hurt—standing on the clock face as the sun crested the horizon, watching the moon drop closer and closer, staring up at the horrifying flux around the masked boy. His whole body tensed like a bowstring.

The instrument had been in his hands. He'd known the song, the song of his blood, the song to set all things aright. And he hadn't played.

He hated himself for it, he regretted it in every strand of his livewood self, and yet he hadn't played.

He was sitting upright now, his breaths short and quick, his orange firefly-light eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he steadied himself.

From his right there came a soft chuckling—a sound he'd know anywhere. He turned to look, and saw his company.

The Salesman sat atop his rucksack, tending a small fire, frying eggs in a pan in front of him. He was still dressed in his regal purple livery, and the teeth he showed in his grin were all sparkling white.

He spoke—"So you're not dead, then. More than I can say for most anyone else."

The boy steadied himself on his hands and staggered to his feet, his limbs reawakening, his joints crackling. A few lazy bubbles drifted away from his snout.

The Salesman set his pan down atop a crate across from him, and pulled a pipe from his pocket. He packed it and began to smoke it, lighting it with a piece of tinder from the fire—"Seems that terrible fate I spotted in you decided to double down. Now you're not just twisted into the wrong body, but it's not even working for you anymore."

The boy looked around the room. He knew where he was, certainly—he just didn't believe it. The stone walls coated in moss and the giant wooden hub in the middle of the room, the walkway leading to the lower level, the crates and accouterments stashed in the corners by the Salesman…

The Clock Tower.

"Shocking, isn't it?" the Salesman said—"Here we are, in the last place you expected to stay standing… but it stands, does it not? Hell, it _more _than stands, it _holds_. A few nights ago there was a storm straight from your nightmares, and the doors held! They rattled like a thing possessed, yes, but still held strong. I half expected them to wrench right off their hinges."

He pointed at the boy with the lip of the pipe—"But you've not been in as many storms as I, boy. When you've spent weeks under collapsed tents, praying a treebranch doesn't fall in the night and halve you across your waist, you learn the pattern. And there's one simple truth, my boy—the safest place in a storm is _its eye_. If you don't trust me, ask any Zora. They sit through cyclones without any trouble."

The boy was at one of the walls now, feeling the dry moss beneath his gloved hands, the graying-green plants crumbling away. This place was safe, yes… but dying all the same. The great wheels below did not turn, and the sound of the river was subdued to a humble volume. All it served to tell was that safe as this place was, it had been tested.

The Salesman peered at the walls himself, and grinned a little wider—"Ah, it's old magic in these walls! The kind they can only tell you about in stories. The old kind, and the best kind! The kind to preserve, not to _blast _your enemies to hell and back, or _teleport _you into some lavish paradise. No, the kind to keep, and to easily keep.

"Take my eggs, for example. You might ask yourself, how could this man fetch himself eggs in the barren badlands that are what's left of Clock Town? The truth is, my lad, I've had these eggs over a month now. Somewhere on the road, I picked up a spell for the preservation of eggs, and it's served me in ways you couldn't imagine. Later on I found another spell to keep onions, and after that—why my lad, how many caravaners do you know who can eat onion omelets for every meal? I live like a king!"

He pulled out a knife and began to slice up his omelet—"Of course, it's not about just eating with luxury—it's about keeping what's _mine_. When you live on the road, there is so little—so _very _little—that you can call your own. You have your craft, your clothes, your labor, and yourself. Any one of those can be taken from you at any time, so by the gods you learn to _value _them. You hold them dear and put all your hopes into them, because they are _yours_. When what's yours isn't there, _you_ won't be there."

The boy moved to sit across from the man, his oaken face showing no emotion apart from polite openness. The Salesman pulled a plate from his rucksack, and dropped half of the omelet onto it, and handed it to the boy, who began to pick at it with his hands, snuffing it up.

The Salesman went on—"That's why I chose to bunk down here these last few days. I could sense the old magic as soon as I came in here, and I knew… I just _knew_. No matter what kind of hitch that little flying thief might pull, I knew this place would stay standing. Clock Town was never _truly _going to be destroyed. Just… rearranged."

The omelet was overcooked and sticky, and the onions were practically raw. The boy ate it all the same. He surprised himself with his hunger.

"Of course," the Salesman said—"I've had to rearrange _myself_, as well. My craft, it seems…" He reached down to the fire and lifted away one of the tinders—a burning mask. He dropped it back onto the fire—"…does not have many clients these days. But then, most of these were for the Carnival, and it's safe to say the Carnival is _decidedly _off. I believe we both know why." He leaned in—"You _do _know why, don't you boy?"

The boy nodded.

"There was an item of mine. Something I value _quite _highly. And I asked you to return it for me. And you didn't. Correct?"

The boy nodded again.

"Then you understand just how _severe_ a thing it is when a man—a man of _principle_, mind—does not get back what is his. If the mask had never been taken from me… well, at the very least, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You wouldn't have to tolerate any more of this old curmudgeon's presence than you needed to. But what was mine was taken, and after being taken… well, much more was taken, to say the least."

The boy snuffed at his empty plate, peering over the rim to show he was still paying attention.

The Salesman sucked the last few drags from his pipe, then blew it out into the fire—"Now, in fairness, I did make it _abundantly _clear to you that I needed my mask returned to me within three days. Seeing as we're now in circumstances beyond our control, I think I'd be willing to forgive that… minor miscalculation on your part. But all the same, if a man is made of what is his, then his word is central to it, is it not?"

The boy passed the plate back to the man.

"I hold our bargain still in place. Fetch me my mask, and I undo some of your current predicament. Cold comfort against the strangeness out that door, yes, but you're a capable young man. I'm certain you'll handle yourself well enough. So… is the bargain still good?"

The boy gave a deep nod.

The Salesman's grin receded to only a smile, and he tried to collect a sense of solemnity—"Well, now it's time you knew the situation... It's been a week since the moon fell. You've been out that entire time. Clock Town as we know it is still mostly standing—ah, but you'll see that soon enough. I suppose I should… well, I'm not sure how to put this…"

But the boy already had a semblance of what the Salesman was going to say. There were only two of them around the fire—there should have been three.

The Salesman spoke—"Your fairy gave herself to save you. You were in a bad way, and she… well." He reached behind one of the crates and lifted away a large piece of splintered timber—"This was stuck inside of you." He passed it to the boy, who cradled it with almost a sense of reverence.

He had not known Tatl long, but it had been long enough to catch an idea of what she had been like on the inside—truly kind, and devoted to kindness. So devoted that she would accept nothing short of a full and equal devotion from anyone she knew. So, of course she would give herself. Of course she would bring order from the chaos. And of course, he had to lose another friend…

The Salesman snapped his fingers—"Ah! Almost forgot." Once more he reached behind the crate, and pulled free a set of dusty bronze funnels—the boy's pipes. These he also handed to the boy, who at once began to brush the dust away, letting the bronze glint in the firelight.

The Salesman gestured to the pipes—"They were rather bent out of shape, I'm afraid. I don't believe you'll ever get a straight tune out of them again. Don't worry, though—I have another use for them yet. You'll see once we hit the road."

The boy got to his feet at once, eager to move.

The Salesman raised a hand to calm him—"Whoa now, my boy. I know you're ready to leave—I couldn't blame you, myself. But there's only one way we'll be able to make serious tracks, and I'm afraid it'll take some dabbling in the town."

He stood—"But let me demonstrate. Over here in the corner is the means to our salvation." He went to the corner in question, where was a shawl draped over a large, formless object.

The Salesman tugged the shawl off, and underneath was a sight to be seen—a hulking, aged beast of an autocycle, red paint to complement the rust on its exposed chrome, with a sidecar every bit as bloodied sitting by its side. The maker's mark was printed on the side of the gas tank: "DMF", for Death Mountain Forge, and a sigil of a sharp three-pointed toe. Goron craftwork, the perfect tool for a noisy but speedy escape.

The Salesman caressed the handlebars—"Have you never seen such an awesome piece of machinery? Had this made back in Goron City—watched Biggoron himself assemble it from ore straight from the mountain. Did you know he _chews _the ore to make it shine so? But yes, it's been an invaluable item ever since. Well worth that half a year spent sweating atop the volcano while that lug knocked it together. At least in that time I acquired a taste for rock liquor. On which topic…" He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig. He offered it to the boy, who declined.

The Salesman shrugged, and stowed his bottle again—"Of course, there are just two minor setbacks for us… one being that we have no gasoline. But fret not, my boy, I know just the place to fetch some. As for the other issue… well, it's best you come with me, then."

The Salesman went to his rucksack, and unclipped a long, stiff item from the back, draped in a resplendent purple cloth. He unwrapped the cloth, and produced an aged rifle, taller than the boy himself when stood on end. It was a desert rifle, with a curved buttstock and gleaming lens—likely also a Lens of Truth. On the side of the stock was printed an eye crying blood, the sigil of the Sheikah.

With a Goron autocycle, a Sheikah rifle, and such fine clothing, the boy could only wonder what kind of man the Salesman was—certainly a very traveled man, at the least. He would be a valuable partner, if only for the rifle he kept.

The boy watched as the Salesman loaded a few cherry-sized shots into the rifle's magazine, careful to stand away from the fire for fear of igniting the gunpowder. When the gun was loaded, the Salesman went to the giant wooden doors, which only now the boy saw he'd sealed with a pair of heavy crossbeams. The man lifted them free with surprising ease, then shoved the righthand door open with his foot, and pointed the boy outside.

The boy stepped through the door, and at once was overwhelmed by the devastation. The festival square was like an ancient ruin, an arrangement of bonewhite bricks scattered as if a wind had blown then, and splintered wood and carnival drapery providing the only color. Smoke rose against the hard-white sky, fires raging in the outlying districts of the town. Even in the last few days before the tragedy, there had been at least a few people left in the city—enough to make its current emptiness quite eerie.

Still, the walls of the town stood, which was more than the boy could've hoped for.

The Salesman checked the corners, then tapped the boy on his shoulder and pointed him to their left. They went up one of the wooden walkways beside the base of the clock tower, and wound around to the short wooden staircase leading up to the entry balcony. Here the boy couldn't reach, so the Salesman boosted him onto the platform. Then together they stepped into the long staircase leading up to the clock face, the only light a pure white portal above.

The clock face was in as good a state as the square below—the entire thing had been singed, all the ancient paintwork and machinery burned beyond function or recognition. The Salesman removed his shoes and left them on the staircase before proceeding, and the boy soon found why—a thin layer of ash covered his own shoes as he walked.

Still, above there was no moon, and below… well, there was _still _a below. A smoking, flattened, distorted city was all that was left, but there was _something _left.

Off to the far lefthand side of the clock face was an odd lump of something, larger than the boy. The Salesman gestured to it with his rifle—"There's your Deku flower, my boy." As they approached, the boy saw it was so—the Deku flower and the soil beneath it had been stuffed into a jute net. The shovel used for the job sat beside it.

The Salesman strung his rifle around his back—"It was a bitch of a job keeping it alive these last few days—had to renew the preservation spell every two days, which meant leaving _you _exposed. Still, both you and the flower are as alive as our purposes require. Might smell something terrible on the inside, though. The flower, that is. Not you."

He pointed out over the western stretch of the town—"It's through West Clock Town that we'll make our exit, eventually. The south and north gateways are blocked by rubble, and the eastern part of town is closed by some rather unfriendly individuals. Granted, so is the west, but the west is the market district, and its geography is friendly to wagons or, in our case, autocycles."

He went to kneel, to get on the boy's level, but then remembered the ash below his feet, and only bent at the waist instead—"My boy, I want you to fly out as far as you can over the town, beyond the city walls, and get a good view of our situation. I…" There was some kind of hidden fear behind his eyes—"…I already know_ what's_ beyond the wall. I only want to know… how _many_. Do you understand?"

The boy took a moment before nodding.

The Salesman grinned again, and at once reached to hold the flower steady. The boy climbed atop the mound of soil, into the flower, and burrowed inside. A dying scent of pheromones came over him, and he felt around through the slowly-drying interior of the plant for a pair of petal-copters. He found them shortly, and stuck his face out of the flower for his instruction.

The Salesman looked out over the town—"The wind's against you on the way out, but it'll be with you on the return. You're higher than any of the buildings out there, so you shouldn't have to worry about landing before you get back. If you do, just give a blow on your horn, if it's still working that is, and I'll come find you. If it's not working... well, let's say it'll work, shall we?"

The boy nodded, and surged out of the flower, directly up into the air, trailing pheromones and plant debris. He stuck the petal-copters into the air, and they took hold at once. He turned and kicked out over West Clock Town.

Flying over the city now, little of the rubble or destruction phased him, either from its distance or just from desensitization. He dodged the streams of smoke with ease, drifting toward the far wall. He reached it in little time, and began to cut out over the wall… and then saw what was beyond.

A chorus of dead shrieks rose from the masses beyond the wall, rotted brown arms raised at him, eyeless crumpled masks locked on him. The throng stretched from the base of the wall, which the creatures clawed at even as they eyed him, to as far as one could see, shrouded in a distant fog that hid the horizon.

The boy had seen ReDeads before, certainly. Anyone who travelled in dark and dangerous places was bound to run into them. But _so many_… it was impossible to comprehend. They stood gaping, and crawled between each others' legs, and shuffled nearer the wall as if they could climb it all the way up to him. The boy only turned back around, and let the wind carry him over the town, the low moans following him.

Halfway over the market, a shot rang out—one of the petal-copters collapsed and fell limp by the boy's side. He reached to stabilize with the single one he had left, but it was already too late, and he began to spiral out of control, down toward the marketplace.

The last thing he saw was one of the thatched straw roofs that covered the long, winding promenade that acted as West Clock Town's main street—the boy rocketed toward this with incredible speed.

There was a sound of splintering wood, and an intensity across his head—

And once again, he was unconscious.


	3. Chapter Two: Clowns to the Left

**CHAPTER TWO: "CLOWNS TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT…"**

He woke in a heap of straw and wood, and pain.

When focus returned to his eyes, he saw the long curve of the Western market walkway stretching out below him, big lazy stairs to let shoppers take their time. Empty now, but for firelight and abandoned stalls, and him.

He brought an aching hand to his snout, and felt at the burning numbness there. His hand came away sticky, covered in a clear goop - Scrub blood, still a peculiarity to him. He'd bled red his whole life before, and it was no comfort that he'd changed.

He looked at the broken remnants of the petal-copter beside him - there was a fine slice along the top of the stem that had sheared off one leaf and clipped the end of another. Burnt pollen drifted from the bud - the boy grabbed some and held it to his wound, feeling the burn as the powder seeped into his cut and sealed it. If he'd been in his old body, putting the pollen in a wound like that would've racked him with painful spasms and stopped his heart, so perhaps there were some advantages to his current arrangement.

He had enough energy now to stand, but he soon found that he couldn't – one of the crossbars of the canopy had fallen onto his leg, not crushing it but trapping it entirely, far too heavy for him to move. It left his foot on an awkward angle, caught between the crossbar and the drop of the stair. He didn't try to strain, and only lay back, sighing. He had only room to think, now.

If it had been the Salesman who'd fired the shot – but it was ridiculous to imagine that! The man had spent the last week tending to his wounds – why sacrifice his effort? But then, the boy had only heard that it had been a week from the Salesman himself, along with the stories about his care and upkeep. Who could say?

The truth was, if the Salesman had fired the shot, it was safe to assume no help would be coming. But it hadn't been the Salesman – the boy told himself this, and found considerable comfort in it. It made no kind of sense.

It was just like him, he thought – twisted into a body not his own, killed by shrapnel and returned from death, knocked unconscious by a hundredfoot fall… who's to say paranoia wasn't healthy? And least of all to someone who'd heard from their earliest remembrance that they were a "hero". Someone who'd done what were called "heroic" things. Someone who, less than a year pervious, had had his formative years sucked away at a breath by ancient magic, and then been given them back when it suited a design beyond human understanding.

Someone who'd known from their first day that they'd lived before, and who in the rear of their mind knew that they would live again.

Who could speak to a person like that about conflict, or perseverance in the face of adversity, or duty? Who could tell a person like that when they were wrong, or unreasonable?

Who except a person just as acquainted with dark and dangerous things…

Perhaps, after all, the Salesman had been telling the truth.

A shadow went across the wall down the street – then another, and another. Fast footsteps echoed around the corner.

The boy steadied himself, propped himself up on his elbows, adjusted his hat – bit his fear and choked it inside himself.

The first of the men was middle-aged and bald, mean tattoos over his arms. Rows of tiny bombs were tied to his belt and up and down the vest he wore. He saw the boy on the stair and pointed to him – "There's your prize."

More men came after him, many of them Clock Town familiars the boy had run into during his three days here, now barbarized, clutching old matchlock rifles or rusty training swords, all unshaven and worn by the recent trouble. They gathered in a half-circle before him.

Most only acknowledged the boy's presence with a tired look, but one man – a deserter from the town guard from the looks of him, his helmet cocked and his spear strapped to his back – knelt and smiled. He had a polished arquebus in his hands, and there was a smell of powder in the air – before he said a word, the boy knew he'd fired the shot.

The guard spat and chuckled – "If there's a man alive who'll call that less than masterful marksmanship, he'll catch my next shot!" He put a hand on the boy's face, held it up to look him in the eye – "Didn't hurt you now, did I, ya brush-bitch?"

There came a voice from behind the crowd – "Down, Hecan." The men made a path for the speaker, who stepped forward.

It was a man in simple clothes, a set of shirt and trousers the same shade of green as a single-rupee, a red belt the same color as his long hair tied about his waist, covered in small wallets and satchels. He tilted his cap back to look at the boy, and knelt before him, putting a hand on his face in a manner much more polite than the guard. He brushed the boy's mossy hair out of his face – "Excuse me, but let me take a look at you…"

A moment later, his face brightened – "ah yes! You're the little guy who showed up last week. Your name escapes me, I'm afraid to say. However…" He shut his eyes in concentration, mouthing calculations silently… then he looked at the boy confidently – "One hundred and twelve rupees. Yes, that's it. Sixty-seven on the third day before the carnival, the rest on the second before. Plus one four rupee surcharge that night." He smiled, and spoke over his shoulder – "What does that make him, boys?"

The bomb-man answered – "Frugal."

"Absolutely so. Frugality was a rare virtue in the days before the fall – now it's so rare you could just as soon money it, itself. And here-" He pointed to the boy – "…we have a kid who ended up with the sum of _your_ week's wages in his first two days in town. Wouldn't you say that's a symptom of frugality, Hecan?"

"I'd say it's a symptom of a cut throat and an empty wallet," the guard said, his gaze penetrating the boy, himself unable to return it from fear.

The Banker sighed – "Sadly true." He gave the boy a sorry look – "My apologies, little guy, but there's just nothing to be done. Rupees still hold value, and you still hold rupees." He stood and turned away – "Do it quick."

The guard reached to screw off the head of his spear, the boy watching with terror coursing through him. He tried to pull away, but his leg stayed caught. The guard put a hand on his free leg – "Don't fuss, lad, it'll make the blade glance-"

A gunshot – and a ringing noise as the guard's helmet caved in on its left side. The guard hit the ground head-first.

The other men turned to the source of the sound, weapons at the ready. The boy turned to look, himself…

"Before any thought of vengeance enters your head," the Salesman said, rifle nocked in his shoulder – "ask yourself, was he truly a loss?"

The Banker took a step forward, but the Salesman turned the gun at him – "Far enough, Junus. I had to run here all the way from the clock tower, I'm too out of breath to lay you out. Don't give me an excuse to start a brawl."

"Seems to me you already started one," the Banker said – "Hecan was our best shot. He had a dearth of talent in anything else, but gods if he didn't make up for it. You'll need a good excuse for me not to send you to meet him."

The Salesman stood beside the boy – "This boy is my investment. He's worth more to me than any sum of rupees you could ever give. Perhaps you can forgive a foreigner his odd customs when he feels his investment is threatened."

The Banker bit his lip to suppress his anger – "No, I'm afraid that won't do. Someone, please, kill these dogs."

As the men made a move forward, the Salesman trained his gun on the man with the bombs – "Ah ah, now. Seems strategy isn't your strong suit, Junus. Your friend here has the firepower to rend us all into ash."

The Banker glared at the Salesman, weighing his choices at the same time… then he turned, and gestured for his men to follow. They shuffled after him, giving a few squinty glances at the Salesman and the guard's corpse. They were gone not long after.

The Salesman strapped his rifle around his back, and grabbed the spear from the dead guard's back – he slipped it under the fallen crossbar and used it as a lever to pry the bar loose. The boy scrambled to his feet.

The Salesman dropped the spear and sat on the rim of the stair, catching his breath. He looked at the body below him and sighed, more from exasperation than regret.

Then he turned and looked at the boy – "Did you get above the city walls, boy?"

He nodded.

"How many?"

The boy only stared, unable to express himself.

The Salesman understood – "That many? Shit." He scratched his head – "Well, we can probably manage it all the same, if we get a good speed leaving town. I only hope you have a good constitution, boy. It won't be pleasant to see so much death before you, or getting caught in the axles."

He stood again, and patted the boy's head – "Come on now. Let's get to East Clock Town. We've arrangements to make, and I'd just as soon clear out of this part of town before we meet someone less understanding than Junus."

As the pair cut up the staircase beside the treasure-chest shop, the boy marveled at how little damage there was to this part of the town. After the splintered rubble of the southern festival square, and the burning western district, it was a pleasant thing to find buildings that still stood. The boy even glanced skyward a few times, as if to confirm there was no more looming moon above.

Before long they reached the central square of the eastern district, the great maypole sticking from the tiled ground, with ceremonial decorations strung between the buildings.

Still, despite the town's apparent survival, there was something sinister in the air, something that made the boy uneasy. There was a crowd gathered around the maypole, loud and unruly – they cut toward it, and through it…

"Oh gods," the Salesman said.

There was a crate set up beside the maypole, and a large pool of blood on the tile below it. Nearby was a dais on which stood a man and woman, both very well-dressed, looking out over the crowd. When they turned toward the boy, he could see that there was no shred of sanity in their eyes.

The woman spoke – "WHO NEXT? WHICH OF THESE JEALOUS SLUTS GOES TO THE BLOCK NEXT?!" She had a nightstick in her hand, and used it to point to a row of young women, all roughly her age, trapped in stocks.

The man beside her walked before the trapped women, grabbing them by the hair to get a good look at their faces. He stopped halfway down the row – "Honey, this one gave you a dirty look!"

The woman seethed – "BRING HER UP HERE, DARLING! WE'LL SEE HOW SMARTLY SHE CARRIES HERSELF!"

The man – Darling, evidently – unlocked the woman from her stock, and dragged her up onto the dais, whipping her with a nightstick of his own to keep her moving. Then he shoved her forward, leaving her exposed before the crowd.

Her clothes were torn, her face bloodied. She stood with every muscle in her body tense, staring at the ground like it was her only friend.

The woman with the nightstick – Honey – spoke to her – "what's your name, slut?"

"…A-Anju."

"Of course it is. We _all_ know Anju, don't we?"

The crowd roared.

Honey went on – "Yes, you're quite popular around town, aren't you? You were going to get married to the mayor's boy until he split for that milkmaid bitch on the ranch. It must be _so_ difficult dealing with an unfaithful man, isn't it?"

Anju closed her eyes, tears rolling down – "Kafei didn't abandon me. He never left town-"

"Only _naturally_ he didn't! No one in their right mind would _ever_ walk out on Anju! Why, she's the prettiest girl in town, wouldn't you all say?"

The crowd only stared.

"Even prettier than _me_, would you say?"

Darling stepped forward – "Impossible, my dear! Simply impossible! She could only _dream_ to be prettier than you!"

"And yet not a week ago, she was going to get married to the mayor's boy! And then that whole debacle with the manhunt…" Honey gritted her teeth – "Darling, it seems to me like she was trying to upstage _our wedding_."

Anju's eyes widened – "No, of course not! I was… I didn't even know you were-"

Darling brought the nightstick down on Anju's face – she fell to her knees, grabbing at her broken nose.

"It won't do," Honey said – "It just won't do to have someone like this pissing around town – _our town_, darling - like she owns the damned place! Just another jealous slut! Oh, I've always hated you, you bitch! I'VE ALWAYS HATED YOU!"

Darling stepped forward – "Take her head now!"

One of the men emerged from the crowd, a man with long curly hair and a sword by his side. He looped a hand around Anju's shirt-collar and dragged her down to the crate, shoving her down and keeping a foot on her back to prevent her moving. He polished his sword with a length of cloth at his side.

The boy looked away, as did the Salesman. Anju did not stop screaming… until the crowd screamed instead, loud whooping shrieks of approval.

From his periphery the boy could see a little movement as men cleaned up the mess – and then the swordsman reached down and swung something up into the air. It landed with a thunk inside the large pot atop the maypole.

The Salesman, his eyes closed, found some sort of inner serenity, and collected himself – "Let's just get the damn thing over with." He stepped forward into the opening, and bent a knee at the foot of the dais – "My lord, my lady, I beg a moment of your time."

Darling scoffed – "Seems we've been lorded, Honey. As if you weren't a lady before."

Honey ignored this, and spoke to the Salesman – "What do you want?"

"Ma'am-" He gestured to the boy – "My associate and I are foreign traders. Our living is dependent on our autocycle, which we've been unable to fuel following the recent cataclysm. It's my understanding that you possess a surplus of gasoline, which you once used to fuel your attractions in the town. I humbly ask that you would lend us some, that we may continue our trade, in gratitude to your kindness – one of the truest marks of beauty, might I add."

The couple shared a glance, unsure how to respond to the Salesman's flattery. Then Darling spoke – "You are a trader, so why shall we not trade?"

The Salesman hesitated - "Ah… in truth, sir, I am more craftsman than trader – a maker and seller of masks. I have only become a trader in these late days, where my craft has had less value… but it would seem that we are not yet at cross-purposes! If you are not yet wed, I could make a pair of masks for your celebration-"

Rage came over Darling quickly – "What, you think my fiancée should cover her face? Is there something wrong with her, I wonder?" He pointed to Honey – "What part of this face could even _begin _to be matched by your paltry masks?"

The Salesman raised his hands to calm the couple – "I meant no offense, sir, I was only offering-"

Honey shrieked from deep within herself – "He thinks I'm ugly! HE THINKS I'M UGLY!"

The crowd tightened a little, hands moving toward weapons.

The Salesman sighed, and looked over his shoulder at the boy – "Time to turn scarce, my friend."

Then he was sprinting away, cutting through the crowd and across the plaza. Honey yelled damnation and threats after him, and some of the people broke off to give chase.

The boy turned as well, and began to run in a different direction, back past the treasure-chest shop. He could hear heavy footsteps behind him, and he had to lean forward as much as possible to keep speed ahead of them.

When he reached the festival square in South Clock Town, they were nearly on him, so he changed strategy – he cut right suddenly, over a pile of rubble, and dove through a hole in a broken stall. His pursuers struggled to follow him through the rubble. He cut a brief zigzag through the fallen bricks, and then fell to the ground, hiding beneath a great chunk of masonry. By the time the men had caught up, he was entirely hidden, and they couldn't find him – they gave up shortly, and turned back.

Around half an hour later, the found the Salesman behind the clock tower, standing by the collapsed entry to the northern district, hidden by the rubble. The boy joined him on the wall, catching what breath he still didn't have.

The Salesman took a long breath in, and let it out slowly – "Well, that avenue seems to be closed to us. I never was a flatterer, my boy – I always let my craft speak for itself. A well-made mask needs no advertisement." He pounded a fist against the wall – "Damn it all! Now we'll have to conjure some way to sneak into their storehouse and take the fuel."

The boy sat, and pondered on just what they could do. Here was a city torn between two crazed gangs, split down the middle by a trail of debris, and surrounded by the damned souls of the dead. A hard situation to get into – certainly harder to escape. There had to be some way, though, some key to the whole thing…

The Salesman found it first, and his grin returned – "Yes, that's it, isn't it! The Swordsman works for those two in the eastern district, but lives in the west! He's the link tying the town together. I think we can use him to our advantage." He laughed – "We'll use him to turn Junus's boys against the man and his lady!"

The boy shrugged, but the Salesman paid it no mind – "Oh, don't pretend he's not deserving, boy. You saw what he did. A man who'll do such a thing so callously is worthy of quite little other than his comeuppance. I'm no moralist, but gods, _anyone _could tell you that."

The Salesman suddenly turned solemn – "Gods, but wasn't that a dreadful thing to see. Not that I haven't seen it done before – or worse, for that matter. It's only how the crowd could so easily take it. And what a crowd, too! There was a boy in there, couldn't have been more than ten. Had a Keaton's mask on. Didn't cheer, or cry, or even flinch. Just watched." He sighed – "It's a strange world, this one. I must say, I look forward to equalizing it."

He stood – "Come, boy. We'll visit the Swordsman tonight, and see if we can't cull some of the scum in this town."

He went off, and the boy followed – and as they walked, the boy thought.

For better or worse, this had perhaps been the most interesting day of his life.


	4. Chapter Three: The Way of the Sword

**CHAPTER THREE: THE WAY OF THE SWORD**

The Swordsman crossed the ruins of South Clock Town, torch in hand, pockets filled with rupees. It was a heavy, dank night – but then, they all were now, with no moon left to cut the darkness. Now the night was thick as fog, and you needed a torch even to head down the road.

He had a long way to walk, himself. It had never been a long walk before to cross the town, but many things had changed in the last few weeks – parts of town were off limits, either from fallen debris or scum who licked their knives and made comfy homes in the dark.

Now, the shorter path home – past the Stock-Pot Inn and around the back of the Clock Tower – was closed entirely, and he had to take the long path around. Still, he wouldn't dare take the long stairway of West Clock Town, or approach the Laundry Pool – those were lost to unfriendly people, ones who would be fine to let him fall one or two of their friends if they could in turn drive a spear into him.

Just where all this antagonism had come from, he couldn't say. He had been acquainted with ugliness in his youth, like all mercenaries were – but he had never expected it to be so… _exalted_. Never celebrated in the streets like an achievement…

But then, these people _had_ missed their carnival. Perhaps they were making up for lost time.

As he passed between the high, painted walls that marked the entry to West Clock Town, the Swordsman reflected on this – it had never been his place to ask why these people did what they did. He had never been more than an outsider to them to begin with.

Still, he had been raised to understand politeness and its virtues. When he was asked a favor, he did not hesitate to offer his services. Even when he had trained his novices at the school, he had always tried to maintain some aspect of pleasant company and cheer, even in his discipline.

Whether he had succeeded at this or not couldn't be said – he had never asked his students what they thought of him, nor had any offered to tell. When he had seen them about town, in a natural setting, they seemed to quiet and turn respectful and distant at once, even when they were with friends. Perhaps that meant that he had failed, that the ones who counted on his guidance could never truly approach him, and ask him about anything of importance…

But no. discipline in all things was the most important virtue of all. It was no fault of his if spoiled children couldn't meet the mark.

Besides, they were all dead now, and he wasn't. In fact, he was more than alive – he was rich.

It was the old mercenary in him that could justify that – whatever they asked him to do, whatever the reasons were, Honey and Darling paid well. He did their business quickly and mercifully, and took home a sum at the end of each day. He didn't know their names – they didn't know his. The only downside was the monstrosity of the arrangement – but this was a time of monstrosities. Perhaps it was not a bad thing to only become another character in the play – perhaps even discipline and humanity might return at some point.

Perhaps this was only another war – cruelty and inhumanity were always celebrated in wartime.

He had many more perhapses like that. They comforted him on nights like this, when his hands were close to shaking despite the warmth, and doubt clouded his mind.

He reached the far plaza beside the gate – this had been perhaps the most active area of the town before the calamity, and now it was among the most secure. The long promenade of the staircase and the gate to the outside were both blocked by big wooden barricades, thirty feet high each, with walkways up them to ramparts where one could watch over the top and spy for living scum down the promenade or dead scum through the gate. The pathway the Swordsman had taken to get here was wide open, but was so thin a single man could keep the bottleneck secure.

The security of the plaza had not gone unnoticed – squatters had crammed into the nearby shops, good people who had been made very private by the recent trouble. As the Swordsman passed the post office, he could peer through the open door, and see masses of people sitting along the walls and laying beneath the counter, the crying of babies the only sounds to hear. Sometimes there might be a card game outside of the lottery shop, but never a boisterous one, and with laughter to spare.

The Swordsman tossed his torch into a brazier, and unlocked the door to his school. The inside was as dark as outside, but the torches from without gave enough light for him to navigate. He crossed the wide training mat to the raised bier that doubled as his bed, and laid down his sword and rucksack and wallets. Then he went to his gong rack – he'd sold the gong in the first few days after the calamity, and now used the rack to cure meat. He pulled off a length of bombchu jerky and chewed it with some effort, the ashy meat popping against his tongue like a wine.

He stepped up onto the bier and sat cross-legged upon it, the way he always had when teaching. He peered upward, looking at the empty blackness above – though the walls of the school had stood through the calamity, the roof had sheared off like in a windstorm. Now when he slept, it had to be under a tent. The rains of the last few days had rotted much of the matting on the bier, leaving it dried out and stinking, not even good for kindling.

The back room still had a roof, of course – but he had his reasons not to go back there, besides which he had already boarded it up.

With neither the Clock Tower nor the moon left to tell time (and his old clock above the door long since burned for firewood), there was no reliable way of guessing the hour – so once he finished his jerky, he tied his long hair in a knot, and crawled under his tent, prepared to sleep.

He laid there for some time, in that half-space between sleep and waking… until he heard the front door open.

A man was standing with a foot in the room and a grin on his face – "Care for some company?" He stepped fully into the room – suddenly brighter now, as the man brought a torch in with him. He glanced upward – "No roof, hm? So it's no trouble if I bring this in with me." He tossed the torch to the floor.

The Swordsman eyed the man strangely, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his blade – "What do you want?"

The man shrugged – "A little company, like I said. I hope it's not a problem. Oh, unless you were planning to sleep. If that's the case, I can go to bed as well. It's really no problem for me."

The Swordsman stood – "I've no mood for jokes. Tell me what it is that you want."

The man moved closer. At this close distance the Swordsman could see that he was rather well-dressed, in deep purple linens and soft felt shoes, and small gold rings to fasten it all together. A man who wore clothes of this sort in the ruins of Clock Town was either delusional enough to not know the risk, or accomplished enough in defense to take it with ease. Both options were cause for caution, and the Swordsman kept his blade close.

The grinning man went on – "Yes, of course… well, in truth sir, I've come here for much the same reason anyone else might."

"That is?"

The grinning man sat cross-legged before the bier, like a student – "Why, to learn! And from the best, of course. Your renown with a blade is known to the furthest borders of the country – and I've the money to take any lesson you might offer."

The Swordsman shook his head – "No more lessons. You'll have to look elsewhere."

The grinning man sagged – "Oh, but of course. Yes, it's been known around town that you've moved to a profession that calls for all your attention."

"If you could say so. Now if I may ask, I must sleep-"

"Requires a mite more than just attention, though, wouldn't you say?"

The Swordsman tapped the tip of his scabbard against the edge of the bier – "I have no patience for this conversation, sir. I must rest, and I offer no more lessons. Now you must leave."

"Oh, piss on the lessons, man. I'm talking about something of _import_ now."

"What?"

"Honor, sir. Honor."

The word hung like torchsmoke. The Swordsman did not respond – only looked off into space, not sure yet whether he had been offended or not.

The grinning man went on – "I saw you at work by the pole today. Not far from the treasure-chest shop. I saw it when you put Anju to the block. Did you see me by any chance? I went forward right after to ask your employers for some gasoline."

The Swordsman took his time answering – "No. I was cleaning my blade."

"Of course. I only have to wonder, sir… why might it need cleaning at all? Surely there's ways to make a living without… you know…"

The Swordsman bit his lip – "They pay me well."

"Do rupees truly matter in times like these?"

"They do. I haven't enough time in the day to trap my own food. I must buy it from… but why am I telling you this? I don't have to justify myself." He jutted his sword at the door – "Get out, now!"

"Is there honor in it, sir?" the grinning man said – "I know how it is for you swordsmen, even when you whore yourselves as mercenaries it's a matter entirely of honor. Do you gather honor from this job, or only rupees?"

The Swordsman glared, but said or did nothing else.

The grinning man went on – "Of course, perhaps the rupees _create_ the honor – just the simple life of an executioner, making a day's wages for a day's work, isn't it? Either way, there must be _some_ sort of honor in it, mustn't there?"

The Swordsman leapt off the bier and moved before the man – "I will not ask you to leave again."

"But no, there's a truer reason," the grinning man said, his tone quieter – building to a coming climax – "Perhaps the same reason you've blocked off that back room of yours. That can't have been to protect you from ReDeads – the walls are strong here, and you're nowhere near a sewer, where they might crawl out. No, it must be because something occurred back there that you are… _unwilling_ to face. Some lapse in your character, maybe? Yes, I know men like you – it had to have been that. And these _are _trying times – even the best of us might crawl to a safe place and cry a while-"

"Silence!" the Swordsman said.

The grinning man went to his feet – "Yes! Your honor died in that back room, didn't it? Your honor died, and now you make your living de-heading bound women! Does it pay well, you honorless, cowardly son of a bitch?!"

The Swordsman tossed his scabbard aside and swung at the man – only to have his blade glance off an ornate shortsword, one that the grinning man had drawn from behind his back with a flourish.

The grinning man leapt back into a limber stance, his sword gently weighing down his hand, his body turned sideways to make a smaller target – at once the Swordsman could see he was up against a man of equal talent.

All thought left his mind, and action went into his hands and feet – he thrust for the grinning man's stomach, but was parried to a side. In turn he spun and moved to strike the man's open side – only to hit air when the man ducked. The grinning man in turn made a stomach-thrust of his own – the Swordsman leapt back and slammed against the wall.

He pulled off the wall and sidestepped to the middle of the room. They circled one another a minute and more, eyes locked strong on each other. Apart from a few false feints, neither made a move.

Then the grinning man exited his stance, and held his sword calmly before him, in both hands. A simple play, one that might have tricked a child or novice. The Swordsman only responded by exiting his stance in kind, and backing up toward the bier, where he kept a small bottle of liquor. He uncorked it and tipped the whole thing into his mouth, hot fierce liquid pouring down his throat, his eyes still on the grinning man.

"I wonder…" said the grinning man – "did some of your technique die with your honor? Perhaps you only hide that better."

The Swordsman only nodded, and began to walk along the wall, to where the torch was laying – which he flicked into his open hand with the tip of his sword. He spun at the grinning man and spat the liquor at him – a jet of flame shot out.

When he tossed the torch aside, all the Swordsman saw was a trail of burning liquid on the floor. The man was nowhere to be seen-

A pain he'd never known before came into his lower back. He screamed and dropped his sword.

His legs began to tremble, and he was about to fall to his knees, but an arm across his chest held him up, and he heard the grinning man whisper in his ear – "Gimmicks are unlike a man of honor. If only you had time to pass that lesson on to your students. And now I think I'll take my prize…"

Then there was a sharp pain across his entire neck…

And then he was once again in the half-space between sleep and waking, his face and thoughts alike going numb, unable to breathe, or feel, or think, or…

* * *

The salesman stepped out of the school with a look of exhaustion drawn over him.

The boy stood from his spot beside the door and looked up at the man, his firefly-light eyes shining in the darkness like the braziers.

The man only gave a tired grin and patted him on the head with his free hand. In his other hand he held a length of sackcloth, wrapped around something or other. It was stained around the bottom, a liquid – black in the darkness – dripping from it.

The salesman rubbed his eyes – "Do you have the note ready?"

The boy nodded, and handed it up to the man.

The salesman read it over. The letters were big enough that he could make it out in the dark: _HONEY IS A CONCEITED PIG-FACED BITCH. –JUNUS' BOYS._

He nodded, and his weary smile widened – "An artwork, my boy. Now there's only to get it where it's needed."

He pulled a loose nail from one of the torchposts nearby and used it to stick the note to the cloth.

Then they left, heading in the direction where the sun would rise - and it would not be long.


	5. Chapter Four: The Square

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE SQUARE**

_"The elder among the men looked deep into the fire, and spoke loud with pride: 'Tomorrow is a fine day to die.'"_

_-Bathory_

The Stock-Pot Inn had been an uncomfortable bunkhouse – the roof had caved in on all the bedrooms, and the kitchen had been all but emptied and rank from the smell of urine. There had been an indoor toilet, but there were sounds coming from it – low moans which the Salesman placed as ReDeads in the sewers, and warned the boy to stay away.

It was not just the ruin of the place that made it a hard place to bed down, though – in truth the library had been quite comfortable, and they'd been able to start a good fire in the fireplace with some of the books.

No, the thing that kept the both of them from resting easy was what the morning held – they had left their message just outside the mayor's office, which Honey and Darling had converted into a ramshackle barracks for their assembled brutes and thieves. The first person out the door in the morning would be in for a bad surprise.

Just when that would happen couldn't be said – there were patrols that walked the streets at night, along with the crowd at the Milk Bar who couldn't be predicted as to when they would turn in, if at all. And just as soon, there was still the chance that the bundle might be missed entirely, or kicked aside and thrown into the trash heap without a second look…

But when the Salesman and the boy exited their restless sleep the next morning, there was the sound of anger and movement outside the inn – and from many people, at that.

The boy fetched up his things – his makeshift rucksack and the long paring knife from the kitchen that was the longest blade his small livewood hands could manage with ease – and began to cross the lobby of the inn when he felt the Salesman's hand on his shoulder.

"We've no advantage making ourselves seen so soon," the Salesman said – "I'd as soon stay unseen entirely. There's a better vantage upstairs – if we get the ruckus we're hoping for, we'll know just the right moment to make our move without revealing ourselves."

The boy nodded, and followed the Salesman. They went upstairs, where the Salesman unslung his rifle and turned the knob of the veranda door – he gently pushed the door, and let the wind take it open.

They slipped out the door, crouching low. The big bell, made of lacquered stone, had fallen off its frame and lodged in the wooden balcony beneath it, its lower half dangling above the street – the Salesman crawled up onto it without hesitation, peering over the side to get a good view. After a moment's hesitation, the boy joined him, uneasy from the creaking splintered wood below him.

It was gently raining, distant wispy yellow clouds hiding the sky – the rain was warm like from a hot spring, and steam filled the plaza below. But even for the thickness of the steam, you could still see the sheer number of men below.

They stood in shuffling clumps, dressed in whatever armor they'd managed to scrounge – a man in only a cuirass here, another only in gauntlets. They held swords, spears, rifles, pistols – a few men with bows and crossbows, a few with cudgels, one or two bombers, and a great many men also holding torches (who stood well away from the bombers). Though the sun was up, they still had use of torches from the steam.

All these men were gathered on the near side of the plaza, near the maypole and the tiles stained brown by innocent blood. Honey and Darling were nowhere to be found.

The other side of the plaza was shrouded by the fog – but after a few minutes there was movement within. Another crowd began to enter the plaza from the other end, their footsteps rattling through the square and their torchlights haloed in the fog. It was hard to see, but the other men seemed to be in a state not unlike Honey and Darling's men – wearing whatever armor and using whatever weapons they could find.

The men advanced through the square until there was only about forty feet between them – and on the roofs of the shops on the other side of the square, archers and sharpshooters took their places, barely visible – the boy hadn't seen them till the Salesman had silently pointed them out.

There were no jeers or shouts from either of the opposing sides, and most men covered their faces, with helmets here or there but mostly with bandanas or hoods.

The Salesman leaned in and whispered – "Do you see right in the middle of the other crowd? Mutoh's carpenters went with Junus. I thought they'd all fled the city before the moon fell. They'll surely make for fearsome fighters."

The men held their lines, and the rain continued to roll down, until Honey and Darling cut a frantic path through their line and emerged in the center of the plaza, dressed in summer clothes, a few men accompanying them for protection. Junus came from the other side, with his own band of bodyguards.

Honey spoke first, her voice carrying over the whole plaza – "Junus – just _where_ do you get these dogs?! Are you so lacking in honor in the western districts that you've had to hire monsters?!"

Junus answered back, his voice carrying just as far – he was speaking for all his men to hear – "Let's not bring the question of honor into this, my dear – we'll never find the end of it. I should like to just resolve the issue that has been lately brought to your door."

Darling stepped forward forcefully – so forcefully that one of Junus's bodyguards leveled his spear at him in defense. Darling barely noticed it – "There's no discussion to be had! Your men have committed an unspeakable crime – punishment must be done!"

"If we could just take the thorns from this situation, sir, perhaps we might reach an understanding. Now, if I understand correctly, your headsman ended up in a rather ironic position, is that right?"

Honey stepped up to join Darling – "Oh, gods damn the headsman! We could find _anyone_ to do that! No…" She held out a piece of parchment for Junus to see – "_This_ is the crime!"

Junus took the parchment in hand and read it – "Ah… yes, that would be just like you, wouldn't it. Men are replaceable, but a slight must never go unanswered."

Honey didn't hear his sarcasm – "Exactly! Now bring out the mannerless bitch who wrote it! I'll take their head myself!"

Junus gave a glance to the man with the spear, then answered – "I assumed that if we were ever to convene like this, it would be for _serious_ arbitration – like if one of your men was improper with one of our women, or if the walls fell in your part of town and the ReDeads began to move in. But honestly, it's not at all surprising to see you'd call us up for… for _rumors_ and anonymous whisperings."

Honey leaned at him, looking down at him even though he was taller than her – "It was _your_ men that did this! It's _your_ men who'll pay the price!"

"Most of my men can hardly read – nor do I need them to. These are hard workers, the ones who built the town before the catastrophe, and will rebuild it now. How is it that the survivors fled to the western districts in droves, and stayed well away from here? It is because we are good to our people, my dear – we do not loot them or kill them without reason."

The Salesman glanced at the boy – "I imagine you could spot that lie better than anyone, my friend."

Darling rose his voice once more – "I will _not_ permit you to dishonor either of us any longer! Very well…" He took another big step toward Junus – "…if you will not give us satisfaction, I will take-"

Junus's man stepped back and stuck Darling through with the spear, jamming upward through his gut and into his heart.

"Gods!" the Salesman said, unable to whisper.

His shock was shared by the whole of both crowds, who stood silent and tensed and gaping, unsure what had just been done.

Darling managed to get one hand around the shaft of the spear – and let off one throaty, gargling gasp – before he died on his feet and fell to the ground.

Junus turned to look at his man, his eyes wide.

The man shrugged – "You said stick him if he starts trouble – he was starting trouble!"

Just as Junus was about to rip into the man, one of Honey's bodyguards stepped forward and leveled a flintlock pistol at Junus's head – a crack, a puff of smoke, and Junus was on the ground with Darling.

Honey let off a resounding shriek – not from despair or derangement, only from anger. The boy caught a glimpse of her face, and could read it like a signpost – this anger was not from the loss of a loved one, but only another offense to her, another challenge to her status.

Then the crowds surged at each other, weapons trailing above their heads. There was no strategy, nor any time to devise it – the gunmen charged with the melee fighters, and the bombers chucked bombs where the most people were, with no regard to the placement of their allies. The bowmen on the roofs held their bowstrings taut, unable to place a target.

A few gunshots were so close the boy could hear the bullets crack the air as they passed – the Salesman ducked his head and hugged close to the bell, and the boy joined him.

The first hour was the loudest – clanging metal and roaring voices and armor caving in under bludgeons. Screams of pain, and gunshots six to a second, from muskets and breechloaders alike. The fuses of bombs burning down, and then a concussion felt more than heard – and then, if it was far enough that your ears didn't ring afterward, you could hear bodies tossed in the air by the blast and hitting the ground again.

Bulletholes pocked the wall opposite them, and three arrows lodged in the veranda door before the fighting winded down. This was in its sixth hour – the gunshots had slowed to one or two a minute, as all the musketeers had fired their guns empty in the first two hours and had fought melee the rest of the time, or died. The bombers were all either out of their wares, or themselves exploded from stray shots – those had been the loudest explosions. Now the loudest noise coming from the plaza was a low and rumbling moaning from the dead and dying – not unlike the ReDeads beyond the walls.

The Salesman was soaked through by rain, and was in general in such a disheveled state that you might think he'd fought in the battle himself. He chanced a peek around the side of the bell – and looked away at once. "The whole square is…" The words died in his throat, and he found better ones – "It may be better if I carried you, boy. It will be a hard crossing, and you won't want to look down."

But the boy had already taken a look himself – corpses and wounded laid across the whole square, from just below the balcony all the way into the fog on the other side of the square. There were still a few pockets of fighting, but these were mainly informal brawls of four or five people, to settle the final bouts of the battle. Nearby, one man was fending off about a dozen enemies at spearpoint, his back dug into a corner. A few men walked slowly among the fallen, looking for survivors of their sides to heal, or the other side to put out of their misery.

The Salesman clasped a hand on the boy's shoulder – "However the hell we intend to do it, we'll need to do it _now_. It'll not be long before order returns."

The boy nodded, and stood, his whole height still hidden by the bell. The Salesman took another look across the square – "Alright… alright, yes, I see our route. We'll jump off the balcony and hold close to the Milk Bar all the way to the gate. Then we hug the wall until we reach Honey and Darling's shop on the east side of the plaza. We slip inside, grab the gas from the backroom, and we're on our way. All good?"

The boy nodded again, and gave him a tap on the shoulder to show he was ready.

The Salesman gave a sharp nod, and leapt from behind the bell, slipping off the balcony and landing quietly on the tile below. The boy followed him as they cut across the plaza to the Milk Bar, moving along a wall coated in ash and pocked with bullets, stepping over wounded sitting against the wall, who looked at them with tired uncomprehending eyes. Then they reached the eastern wall and broke right, moving down the row of shops built into the wall until they reached Honey and Darling's. The door was already open, and they quietly slipped inside.

* * *

Even with the ceiling lights burnt out, the place still looked gaudy. The walls were all colored in blues and purples and pinks and light reds, all deep and blending together, and jewels cut in the shape of pieces of heart stood out shining on the walls. Some of the neon circuits on the walls still burned, but with long portions either flickering or burnt out entirely – they gave only a small glow that barely lit the room.

The front room had a number of corpses inside, people who had either used the room to cover and fire out the door (unsuccessfully), or those who had been wounded and who crawled in here to escape the fighting. This place, with its romantic colors and adorable hearts, must have seemed like a slight from the gods in those last gasping moments.

If the Salesman had thoughts like these, he didn't show them to the boy – he stepped past the corpses and slipped over the counter, and lifted the boy over with one hand, his rifle in the other.

Down a hall with arches also shaped like pieces of heart, they came to the main attraction – the great spinning carousel platform, the only one of its kind in Termina. Before the calamity, it had served two purposes – during the day it had been part of a bowman's gallery, where contestants might compete to see who could hit targets on the walls as the platform spun faster and faster. In the evening, it became a quiet retreat for lovers, where one could enjoy a level of intimacy in a setting both romantic and permissive of slightly less modesty than your average inn or bunkhouse. For a sum of two hundred rupees, it was even possible to rent the room in private for two hours, and the great oaken doors to the room would be shut, leaving you entirely alone with your partner – or, more often than not for those with such money to spare, partners.

Now the carousel stood unmoving, the mirrorball had been torn down and smashed, and the oaken doors had been broken down. The only light was a makeshift brazier atop the middle of the carousel, and the dying neon on the walls.

There was a door at the rear of the room, as well – marked "PRIVATE" and still shut. This would be the engine room, where the machinery that drove the carousel was kept – along with the gasoline to power it. The Salesman tried the door, and found it locked.

Just as he was about to shoulder it down, though, there was a voice from behind them, a woman's voice – "Sir, the backroom is off limits to patrons."

They turned to look – Honey was standing at the mouth of the hall. She was a sight to see – the sundress she'd been wearing was torn now, showing the leather armor she wore underneath. Her face was caked with ash, and dried trails of blood traced down her lips from her broken nose. She had a machete in one hand, and the other held the cigar she was now smoking – from the bandages on her hand, it looked as though she'd lost a finger.

The Salesman shrugged – "Well, as luck might have it, we're not patrons."

Honey didn't answer, only sucked her cigar a moment longer and stepped up onto the carousel before taking the burnt nub from between her lips and tossing it into the brazier. She wiped her machete on what was left of her dress – "It was you that wrote that note, wasn't it? Figured a man like you might be sly enough to try it."

The Salesman eyed her cautiously – "Yes, it was us. But you… you're…"

Honey laughed – "Not crazy? Yes, I'm afraid not. A little deception is necessary to be an effective leader – and the best leader is the one who you don't know is leading."

"It's not your behavior that made me think you were deranged, it was your commands."

"Before you lodge your judgment, ask yourself what you'd do if you found yourself atop a multitude. Wouldn't you tie up a few loose ends?"

"You _beheaded_ a few loose ends."

"So I did. The mayor, his wife, his son's betrothed – gods, even his _secretary_. Also Malcen, who became Captain of the Guard when his uncle Viscen fled to the Old Blasphemy… you know, the only power-holders I didn't see lose their heads were Junus and the mayor's son. But now Junus has some lead between his eyes, and Kafei was bunking with that slut from the ranch the last I heard – so on the whole I think that makes me Town Bitch." She stretched her mouth in a mockery of a smile.

The Salesman gripped his rifle a little tighter – "Your fellow's dead, though - and you're commanding hard men. Hard men are typically stupid enough to think they shouldn't take orders from women."

Honey stuck her machete down the neckline of her dress and cut it off, letting the cloth fall away and showing her leather armor fully – a deep brown cuirass tied at the sides with thick bootlace, and black leggings that ended halfway down the thigh the way the guards' did. She tossed the remains of the dress in the brazier and climbed off the carousel, standing before the Salesman – "True. But then, Darling and I were… never truly happy. He had no leadership – if he tossed a ball in the air and commanded it to fall, it would fly instead. And as for those hard men… well, as long as I keep bedding their captains, I think they'll do exactly what I want them to do."

The Salesman closed his open hand around his rifle, defensive – "Now look, ma'am, we want no trouble – we've taken no sides in this conflict, and in fact our… invention with the note helped solidify your hold on the town, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, certainly! And I'm thankful for it, too. I must say, the note was quite clever."

The Salesman showed his famous grin – "In that case, why not let us have some of your gasoline? We only mean to get out of town, so we'll be no trouble-"

Honey shot a hand forth and closed it around the Salesman's neck, slamming his head against the wall. He dropped his rifle and closed his own hands around hers, but it was no good – she had strength she did not show.

The boy had his knife in his hand, but he hesitated, unsure what to do.

Honey leaned in and spoke to the Salesman in a low and intense tone – "Because, sir, you hold power. You hold power, and you are in _my_ town. I cannot – can _not_ - abide that. If I let you go, then someday you will return and try to kill me. So if you please, just shut your eyes… it will be over soon."

The boy clutched his knife harder, his hands shaking. It was not fear that stopped him from acting – at least not the kind of fear that he'd known the first time he'd faced off with scary things in the dark.

No, the simple truth was that he'd never raised a blade against a human – much less _killed_ one, which from the Salesman's panicked glances he gleaned was the only way he'd be able to stop Honey from choking him to death.

Honey looked down at the boy, paying no mind to the knife in his hand – "You seem pretty harmless, though – you can leave if you like. My men won't give you trouble."

She turned back to look at the Salesman, but she hadn't seen it – she hadn't seen him drop one of his hands behind his back, to close around his shortsword. And she only just barely saw it when he swung the sword out – but by then, of course, nothing could be done.

The Salesman's arc was wide and clumsy, but he still hit home – a cut through her neck, to the bone. He spun with the cut, and shattered the neon on the wall, so there was only a moment of redness before the light went out and hid Honey's scourging from sight – the boy would be thankful for that later, that he was spared the sight of it.

In the darkness of the room, Honey was now a silhouette against the light from the brazier, kneeling on the floor with her hands clutching at her neck, her loose hair bobbing erratically as she tried to take breaths through a throat she didn't have anymore.

But then she straightened up slowly, just enough that the light caught her eyes – locked on the Salesman and filled with pure loathing. Loathing, yes – but also an understanding. The way prey understands that a predator must eat.

Then her eyes rolled back and she slumped to the floor.

The Salesman took deep, panicked breaths, his sword shaking with his hand. He looked down at the boy and spoke in a raspy tone – "Gods! What stopped you, boy, were you afraid you might _offend_ someone?!"

The boy only met the Salesman's gaze and looped his knife back into his belt.

The Salesman gave a heavy sigh, and pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiping off his blade before he sheathed it. Then he grabbed his rifle off the floor and used it to bash the door down.

When they had their gasoline, the Salesman stopped a moment again in the carousel room, to take Honey's tobacco pouch. As he went through the rest of her pockets, kneeling at the boy's height, he spoke to the boy – "Lad, I tell you now – if you take even a second's hesitation on the road, there may be no such chance for us to recover like there was here. Out there, it may come that we have to kill men – we may even have to do it to their faces, or with their friends watching. I want it clear between us that you will _not_ hesitate if the time comes – you need me to put you back in the right body, so you'll need me _alive_. Are we understood?"

The boy didn't answer – only watched the neon flickering on the walls, casting small half-moon shapes on the ceiling where the light bounced off the broken mirrorball.

All of this recent trouble had been caused by a hesitation, of course – when he hadn't played the song atop the clock tower. It was a sin that had haunted him then, and still haunted him now – that the power to fix all this was within his grasp, and he had chosen not to use it.

There was nothing the Salesman could say to him about the trouble with hesitation that he didn't already know, so he did not acknowledge that he had heard his lecture.

The Salesman allowed the animosity for now, and both their tempers cooled before long.

They returned to the clock tower, and slept the rest of the day.


	6. Chapter Five: Ding-a-Ding-Dang

**CHAPTER FIVE: "DING-A-DING-DANG MY DANG-A-LONG-LING-LONG"**

_"I AM THE CHOSEN ONE – THE MIGHTY HAND OF VENGEANCE SENT DOWN TO STRIKE THE UNROADWORTHY! I'M HOTTER THAN A ROLLIN' DICE! STEP RIGHT UP CHUM, AND WATCH THE KID LAY DOWN THE RUBBER ROAD RIDE TO FREEEEEEEEEEEDOM!"_

_-Mad Max_

The Salesman kicked him awake, rifle in hand – "Did anyone ever tell you you sleep overlong, lad?"

The boy stumbled to his feet, his back aching from the hard stone below his bedroll. He flexed his fingers and pulled his hat over his mossy hair.

The Salesman had already struck their camp, and stowed all the supplies in his rucksack – though that was hardly the best word for it. The sack, filled almost to bursting with their supplies, was twice his height and wider across, and it was a wonder that the Salesman could heft it at all, let alone wear it on his back – though it seemed he avoided this as much as possible, lugging the sack around as he collected the last of their supplies. The boy looked to his own small rucksack for comparison – the paring knife from the Stock-Pot Inn, a Lon Lon milk bottle filled with rainwater, a set of leather stockings that would serve for shoes when the ones he was wearing gave way… not much for supplies and provender. It occurred to the boy that he would never be able to lift or even move the Salesman's rucksack, even if their life rested on it.

As the boy rolled his bedding and stuffed it into his sack, he caught sight of something odd – the Salesman had paused his rush to kneel over the red jerrycans that stowed their gasoline, a dowel stuffed through the nozzle of one of the cans – he rolled it between his palms and muttered something at it, like he was having a conversation with it.

The language he spoke wasn't theirs, but the boy knew it still – Old Hylian. A dead language, used only for ritual and liturgy, anachronistic already in Hyrule, likely twice as peculiar in Termina.

The Salesman spat a few more ancient syllables at the gasoline, then drew the dowel out of the one jerrycan to plunge it directly into another – and the process began again. The boy left him be, sitting off to the side and making a breakfast of a few nuts he'd been saving since two nights ago.

When the Salesman was finished with his incantations, he began to slid the jerrycans into various pouches on the outside of his rucksack – it truly was amazing that this man would be carrying all that weight himself, but the boy paid him little mind. The last jerrycan was used to fuel the autocycle, and the Salesman was about to slip it behind the seat of the sidecar when he paused – "Ah, yes, nearly forgot." He reached down into the sidecar and began trying to pry loose something he'd stored in the legroom – "While you got your beauty rest, I was able to make some preparations. We'll have use of this, here…"

He finally pulled free, the boy's pipes in his hands… but with something strange about them. Where the bellows had once been, there was now a sphere of iron, and the fingerholes had been replaced with a lever wrapped in red tape.

The boy squinted at the odd contraption, until the Salesman set him at ease – "Fret not, boy, your plaything's still functional, or as functional as it was when you last had it – it's only been temporarily repurposed. You see, once we're beyond the walls, we'll have need to kill a goodly count of ReDeads with a quickness, and my rifle is more suited to taking them at a distance, or one at a time. So for your pipes… ah, but I have to show you. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't see the look on your face."

He turned away from the boy and flipped the pipes upside down, so that they curved with the ground. Holding the pipes to his side, he pulled back the lever, which resisted a moment – then clicked, sending up a spark from a hidden flint.

And then a jet of flame blasted from the pipes, engulfing the broken wooden shaft in the room's center and going on to scorch the chamber's opposite wall – twenty feet of fire, and no sign of stopping. Each of the individual pipes shot forth its own tendril of flame, but they wrapped about each other and consolidated five feet from the pipe-mouths.

The Salesman released the catch, and the flame died – the wooden shaft smoldered, and the room smelled of smoke and burning moss.

The boy pulled himself off the wall, where he had taken cover. He thought this had to be some sort of sick jest – giving a Scrub a flamethrower was like making a Goron to swim. If a single drop of gasoline spilled from the tank and landed on his livewood skin, his whole self might ignite in an instant.

The Salesman seemed to see his hesitation, and gave a half a smile as an apology – "I'd strongly suggest you keep yourself watered, little flower – otherwise a brushfire is like to make you into ash. You'll get a gas can all to yourself for fuel, but you won't have to concern yourself with it running out – I've blessed our gasoline, so it'll burn slower and truer. As for the gas in your tank spilling out, you still need not worry – the catches in your pipes work wonderfully to keep all the gas from going up at once. The only thing you can't do is aim directly below you – I can't say with safety that the catches will work then, and besides, fire goes up. You know that, don't you?"

The man held out the contraption, and the boy took it, with some reluctance. The pipes were made from delicate swamp-bronze, cooked in tree-trunk kilns and light as a feather to account for the southern swamp's natural humidity. Now the whole thing was unbalanced, heavier toward the rear for the new gastank, beside which you had to hold it upside down now, instead of over your head like before.

But that wasn't so bad, after all – you'd want to aim upwards with a flamethrower, and while it might look fearsome at first to wear the pipes behind your back, it would be decidedly less fearsome to watch your hair catch fire as the flame sputtered down above your head. Either way, they were up against ReDeads, who had no fear and who were taller than him – so the strangeness of his weapon would be no hindrance.

Still, he couldn't afford to trust fire as long as he was a Scrub – it would do to keep that bottle of water close at all times.

The Salesman turned to the autocycle – "well, if that's everything, let's waste no time. I went to West Clock Town this morning to sure up our escape, and they'll let the doors open, but only for as long as it takes us to get through – likely they'll swing them open when they see us coming and shut them again so close behind us they'll cut the tip off your pretty hat. Better not to keep them waiting, I say – if I'm to die today, I'd rather it be this hour than the next."

The Salesman hoisted his rucksack and slipped his arms through the slings. He climbed atop the autocycle and flipped the switch below the handlebars – it rumbled to life.

The boy slipped his flamethrower around his back and went to the doors that led outside – these he swung open, the ancient magic wood rumbling against the stone and resting. Then he went to the autocycle and slipped into the sidecar, and unslung his flamethrower once more.

The Salesman looked down at him, and seemed about to say something… but stayed silent. He turned his eyes forward, and gunned the engine. The autocycle lurched forward, rumbling up the short steps and out the doors.

Once outside, the Salesman took the machine in a slow practice circuit through the southern plaza, slipping between the large chunks of debris and testing the shock absorbers on low pieces of broken wood and stone. Acrid black smoke rolled from the exhaust pipe behind the bike and made the boy's eyes water.

Then the Salesman turned toward the wooden ramp beside the clock tower that led to West Clock Town – he twisted the handle, and the cycle shot forward, the roar of its engine echoing through the plaza.

They took the ramp at breakneck speed and flew a good five feet before landing, only to do it again as they cleared the stone stairs that led to the west town proper. The Salesman coursed the cycle through streets and alleys so narrow the boy wouldn't have blinked if sparks flew from the flanks of the cycle – but the Salesman had the vehicle under control, pointing it exactly where he wanted it to go.

They made a turn at the exit of one alley, only to turn again at the mouth of another – all this without slowing. The boy could feel the bike's center of gravity shifting, and he leaned against the turns for fear of falling out or being tipped over altogether – he hadn't noticed being nauseous before, but now he was very aware of it, his stomach doing flips inside him.

Down a few more alleys, and braving yet more sickening turns, they finally came to the plaza beside the wall, where they slowed to get their bearings – and like the Salesman had said, the wooden barricade to the outside sat open, the whole thing standing aside like a great door on a hinge. Beyond was the broken portcullis, and the heavy white light of the outside – and a solid shuffling line of ReDeads, black against the light.

There stood some twenty men by the barricade, ready to swing it shut when they were through. The Salesman unclipped a heavy coinpurse from his belt and tossed it to one of the men – "Splendid job, boys! Use that green well!"

"Damn your green," the man called back – "Just be gone with you!"

The Salesman gave a curt nod, and muttered to the boy – "If you're not ready, lad, you'll be dead within the next ninety seconds. Keep that in mind."

Before the boy had a chance to respond, the Salesman gunned it once more, and they rocketed into the tunnel below the wall.

Even as loud as the bike's engine was, the moaning of the ReDeads was louder still, and only got worse as they closed the gap between them.

The bike made a halfhearted lurch as it rolled over the fallen portcullis, after which there was only twenty feet between them and the ReDeads – and in the next moment, only ten – and then so close as to see the emptiness of their eyes, and the loose brown film of broken flesh over their faces…

And then they were slicing through them.

It was almost comical – the ReDeads either bowled off to the side and knocked over the ones on their flanks, or were launched cleanly over the cycle. The bike's speed was so great that none of the creatures could get a handhold on the two of them. They hadn't slowed a moment when they hit the wall of dead – in fact they seemed to have increased.

Still, the boy kept his head ducked, and his weapon low. That didn't reduce the intensity of the ride at all, of course – they still shuddered with every blow, and jumped over the corpses that rolled under their wheels. And even as the bodies bounced off the cycle, the boy could still feel them – either a hand or a leg brushing against him, on all sides.

Then they were out of the darkness, and cutting away from the walls. Here the boy brought his head up again, and felt all his breath leave him at once – the throngs of ReDeads reached as far as he could see, rolling up over mounds and down in the ditches, spilling over the loose wooden fenceposts, and rattling, sometimes toppling the dead trees that stood beside the road. The masses that stood against the walls turned to the sound of their cycle, and abandoned their fruitless climb for the clearer target.

Now the Salesman cut away from the road, and went into a field, moving in a perilous serpentine through the loose pockets in the crowd – and still the cycle jumped on this side and that, as it ran over a ReDead here, or knocked another one away there.

The air here was musty, and there was a heavy mist in the distance that hid the horizon, just as the boy had seen on his flight a few days ago – they were nearest the ocean here. Indeed, there stood a few of the statues and fountains that marked the path to the beaches standing out among the crowds of dead – it was a great broken stone statue to the Sea Giant that the Salesman was cutting toward. His face was covered in the spongy brown-green grease that stood for blood in ReDead bodies, and he had his shortsword in his hand, using it to hack away the nearest creatures on his left. Even with only one hand to guide the bike, he kept them steady – they shortly reached the statue.

The Salesman rolled the bike up beside the plinth, and looked down at the boy – "Your time to shine, lad!"

The boy climbed up onto his seat and aimed his flamethrower. The ReDeads shuffled closer, their necks and joints rigored and stiff, their chests sunken and guts receded, their gait slow and shambling. Now the boy caught the smell of them – heady and noxious, like untreated leather, and with a hint of blood. He realized the scent had been hanging over Clock Town the whole time he'd been there – he'd only just noticed it.

One of the ReDeads locked gaze with him, and let off a wavering shriek – soon it was joined by all the others, a wall of sound to complement the wall of flesh.

The boy pulled the lever, and felt the pipes jump as the flame shot forth – first one pipe, then another, and another, the jets wrapping about one another and turning into a solid stream of fire wider and taller than he was.

The boy raked the fire back and forth, watching as the flame consumed the ReDeads in the front, and shot between their legs and around their bodies to light the ones behind them. Smoke and a stench of burning rot came over them, and the ReDeads tried to shriek with their charred throats, to no avail – they had no air to scream, for the smoke.

When the boy killed the flame, there was a field of burning corpses in a sixty-foot halfcircle all around him. Still, more ReDeads advanced, but as he lifted his flamethrower to continue the onslaught, he heard the Salesman from behind him – "Up here, damn you!"

The boy turned, and saw the Salesman standing atop the plinth, between the legs of the statue. He had his rifle in his hands, but he did not fire – "Get up here! There's more all around us!"

The boy found purchase in the nooks on the side of the plinth, and climbed up to join the man. It was as he said – ReDeads were approaching from all sides.

The Salesman knelt – "My rifle's no good against this many, so it's on you, lad. Mind the wind, and don't burn the cycle!"

The boy nodded and ran forward, struck a firm stance atop the plinth, and lit up the ReDeads on the monument's northern side.

* * *

It was only half an hour before the Salesman laid a hand on the boy's shoulder – "We're safe now, lad. You've killed all the ones that caught our scent. The rest have already forgotten us."

The boy's breaths were heavy and fast, and his grip was tight on his flamethrower, but he saw the Salesman spoke the truth – no more ReDeads were advancing, and all that was left was a field of smoke and charred bodies, stacked six high and none nearer than twenty feet from the statue. There was a moan here and there from a body not quite finished, but the Salesman had begun picking these off with his rifle.

The boy watched him at work for a while, then set down his flamethrower and sat against one of the legs of the great stone giant, catching his breath. He looked down at his hands – his palms and fingers were black with ash, and there came a dull throbbing. He realized that he'd burned away the outer layer of his skin and hadn't even noticed.

Without a word, the Salesman knelt and began to bandage his hands – "You'll want a sip of rock liquor tonight, for the pain," he said. "It didn't occur to me that you'd need gloves to handle this thing properly. I'm sorry."

With that done, he leaned against the opposite leg of the statue, slinging his rifle once more. He peered out over the field, toward the crumbling peach-colored walls of Clock Town – "Gods. ReDeads out in force. I never thought I'd see it. And under open sunlight too! I'd heard that the sun freezes them dead in their tracks… but then, they say that of all sorts of monsters, don't they? Still, these are tomb-crawlers, here – creatures bred for the dark. It makes no sense that you'd see so many out in the sun. Of course, you could say that we live in _dark times_, but I've never been one for that sort of pedantry."

He looked down at the boy, and gave one of his grins – "Ah, but that's quite a weapon you have. What a sight to see those jets of flame wrapping about each other!" He sat and pulled out his pipe, beginning to pack it – "You know, if the local religion is to be believed, there is but one god, and he wields a sword not unlike your weapon's flames, with helixes of shimmering steel mined from the center of the earth – though I can't see the application of a sword so ridiculous. All the same, maybe it'll win over some rubes, to see the coincidence."

When his pipe was fully, he passed it to the boy, who was too tired to refuse it. It took some maneuvering for the pipe to fit in his snout, but when it was he lit it and let the smoke waft around his head. He passed the pipe back to the man after a moment, who went on talking – but the boy had no ear for him anymore.

He'd been told all his life that he was a hero – but this was no hero's business, anyone could see that.

Of course, there was one other thing it could be – one thing that, knowing his past and his future, wasn't entirely out of the question.

It could be punishment.

* * *

**_Okay, so that's Chapter Five out of the way. Sorry this one took so long. I'm glad to have something regular to do in terms of writing, but sometimes life gets in the way._**

**_So it seems like I have more than a few people who are interested in my story. That's cool beans. Still, I have a few things I'd like to ask of you guys.  
_**

**_First of all, it'd be great if you could spread the word a little on this story. I don't wanna sound like I'm begging, it really isn't that big a deal if you don't - it's just that I'm not active on this site at all outside of updating this story, and I don't know if I'm going to do anymore after this one, so I'm not as committed to the usual channels of letting people hear about my story. So by all means, if you like this, let folks know!_**

**_Secondly, I'd like input! I'm curious to see what you guys like about each chapter, and where it leads you, plus what you'd like to see in future chapters. I already have a pretty solid gameplan regarding where the story's gonna go, but if you guys let me know I might be able to tailor the story better to your expectations while still writing the story I wanna write._**

**_Also, I'm curious about your perspective on this: I'm seriously considering changing the story rating from T to M. It's not anything in the way of changing the content of the story - it just seems to me more like my story's more M rated than T rated. So let me know!_**

**_If there's anything else you're curious about, let me know in a review or PM me. I'm not shy!_**


	7. Chapter Six: No Business Searching

**CHAPTER SIX: NO BUSINESS SEARCHING FOR FAIRIES**

_" 'He's not your run-of-the-mill basket case, is he?'_

_ 'This guy is definitely out to lunch.' "_

_-Thunderbolt and Lightfoot_

The boy lay back on the log, appreciating the sunlight. It had been a long while since he'd seen blue sky, and he hadn't noticed how much he'd missed it.

Out here, Clock Town and all its chaos was little more than a low glow on the horizon at night, separated from them by long overgrown fields and unpaved muddy roads. The autocycle was caked with dirt now, as was the boy's clothes – but dirt was no trouble at all to a scrub.

The long distance they'd traveled had been largely peaceable – he hadn't needed to use his flamethrower at all. The ReDeads had been more sparing to the south of the town, the direction they had taken after their encounter at the statue. The few monsters they had run into on the road were isolated, standing idly in the middle of fields or under trees, easily picked off by the Salesman with his rifle.

Even when there had been groups of ReDeads, the Salesman only ever picked off one – ReDeads mourned their fallen, the Salesman had discovered, and would kneel beside the downed body for upwards of an hour before resuming their wandering. It was an unsettling thing to watch.

Still, out in this country, where the humidity of the swamp began to creep northward and the trees grew thick and tall with roots ten feet long, the dead were blessedly few, and they were able to take a leisurely pace and light fires of an evening without fear. There had been a few farms along the road some miles back, and they'd filled their sacks with maizecorn and onions and cucco's eggs – the boy had never eaten better.

Still, behind their leisure and their slow pace, there was the creeping fear that they didn't know where they were going. Apart from a few reminders around the campfire of their arrangement – more talk of a man's property and his rights to it – the Salesman had stayed silent on the question of where they were going. The boy had given him no mind – he knew that whether he wanted to or not, he would end up where he was needed.

So it came that on this morning, the Salesman admitted he was thoroughly lost, and set the campfire going again, this time with old mossy leaves to make it rather smoky, for a beacon. They had rested atop a great tree stump, large enough for them both to recline comfortably with the fire between them – now the boy reclined still, while the Salesman knocked tossed rocks in the air and knocked them away with the butt of his rifle.

"A man's allowed to be lost once in a while, lad," the Salesman said – "No shame in it. Aside of which, we were trying to get away from town as quickly as possible – would it matter to anyone which direction I took to escape that madness?"

The boy only nodded, not concerned at all. Clearly the Salesman thought it was an incredible shame for a man as learned as he to be lost – the boy had been lost many a time himself, and had never felt any shame for it.

Thankfully, the Salesman moved on to a new topic – "But it _is_ fortunate that we came in this direction, I must say. It's the reason I've set this fire. I think I have an old associate who's taken wing out over the swamp – do you know who I mean, lad? You knew him too."

The boy gave him an odd look, wondering if he meant the same one he was thinking of.

The Salesman grinned – "Yes, my boy, the wise old owl himself! There's been talk that Kaepora Gaebora flew to Termina the same time you arrived. I must say, it's been a good solid while since I've met anyone from the old country – excluding you of course, but be fair, you're no conversationalist. Ah, it'll be a fair thing to talk of Hyrule – it's been a long while since I was last there, and I'm eager to hear the latest talk. I should like to… look! Look there!"

He was pointing to a distant spot in the sky, just below the sun – they had to shield their eyes to even see it. It bobbed slowly, moving across the sky in a steady northward pass.

The Salesman shouldered his rifle and primed a blank shot, and fired off into the distance. A moment later the distant figure slowed, and then turned toward them, making a steady pace.

The Salesman took a step back, grinning widely… but then his smile began to soften… and suddenly vanished entirely – "Oh gods no. Not him. Anyone but him."

The boy stood and moved beside the Salesman, uneasy… but the Salesman only gave him a weary look and patted his shoulder – "No trouble, lad. Only…" he sighed – "I pray you've more patience than I. This will be an… interesting conversation."

Before long there was a sound of a guttering fire, small at first but growing as it came closer. Then the figure dipped below the sun, and the boy saw who it was – a man dangling beneath a great red balloon, controlling it with an engine strapped to his back. He glided to the ground and slowed on landing, running a few feet before he stopped, his balloon slowly deflating and retracting inside a compartment atop the engine. He turned to the log and gave a friendly wave – "Hello there!"

As he approached, the boy got a better look at him, in all his peculiarity – he wore a long green singlet that was pointed at the top of his head and covered his whole body save his hands and face, and a pair of red drawers held up with a fancy gold belt – over all of which he wore a dingy, beat-up duster coat, the insides of which held tools, knives, bottles, and other various items and weapons. He had rosy-red cheeks with a beauty mark on the right one, and on his lip he wore an absolutely ridiculous set of curled moustaches to match an equally strange pointed beard. He looked like a man who was completely lost and didn't know it.

Just why the Salesman didn't like him was immediately apparent, as the man addressed him in a wavering, posh tone – "Why, if it isn't that wonderful man I met in Clock Town! Quite a pleasant thing to see you've survived – yes, a very pleasant thing indeed! I still mean to buy a mask from you, sir - and fear not, I've the green this time to pay it straight! No more credit for old Tingle!"

The man looked down at the boy after that, seeming to notice him for the first time – as he was totally floored by the boy, gasping like a shocked socialite – "W-what's this?! Your green clothes… sir, by any chance, are you one of the forest folk?"

The boy could only nod – he was too confused to do anything else.

The man wrung his hands in joy – "Splendid! Yes, quite splendid! Tingle is of the forest folk himself, you see – born and bred in the jungles beyond! Alas, no fairy has yet come to him… but then, there is no fairy with you either! Are you like Tingle yourself, my good man?"

The boy winced – the loss of Tatl was a while past, but it still stung to think of it.

The man shook his head – "Ah, but where are Tingle's manners? My name is Tingle!"

The Salesman gaped – "You are impossible, you know that? You shouldn't be allowed to leave home without a parent."

Tingle laughed, in a way that could only be called jolly – "Oh, your wit knows no end, good sir. But I see you've made a fire!" From one of the deep pockets of his coat he pulled a bloody bird carcass – "Come, let us dine together – or is it still early enough for breaking fast instead? Well whatever you call it, let's eat!"

The Salesman built the fire up some more, and the man called Tingle plucked his bird, gutted and spitted it, and roasted it over the fire, the last of the blood dripping off of it and sizzling against the wood. "A Takkuri bird, I believe is what this one's called," he said – "Caught it nibbling at my coinpurse, the little sneakthief! I pulled my knife and took its head off, then caught the rest of it before it hit the ground." He prodded the meat with a long knife that looked like the one he'd used to kill the thing.

Not long after, he lifted the browned bird away from the fire, smelling it and giving a wide smile – "Yes, a fine meal this will make! Fit for lords of old!"

The Salesman diced an onion on a pan, and they all took a handful, along with generous helpings of salt, and ate at their own pace. The Salesman and the boy both ate from beaten iron crockery, while Tingle produced a fine bone ceramic plate and golden tableware to eat his meal.

Just how someone like this had survived so long, no one could begin to imagine. The boy found himself incapable of looking away as he ate – this man, Tingle, was not just beyond reasoning himself, but beyond _other's _reasoning as well. It was easy to see why the Salesman might be so exasperated with him.

But that changed shortly - halfway through a wing, the Salesman found his mood again, and spoke to Tingle, as politely as he could manage – "You know, I've not yet asked – what is it you do, Mr. Tingle? Not often you see a man riding a balloon, and I wonder what calling comes with it."

Tingle belched quietly, and giggled as he covered his mouth – "Ah, maps are my trade, fair sir! I promise you, you shan't find a better mapmaker than Tingle. I've always caught a devilish heat for having such fair hands, _womanly _hands they've been called – but crass hands can't draw the delicacy of rivers, or chart the streets of a city! A funny thing, too – never did anyone buy my maps before the late catastrophe, they said they never had any need of them. But now that they would have that need… why, they're all dead." He laughed, a little too happily… and just a little too long, the boy thought.

The Salesman gave a nervous nod – "…well, we're alive, and as it happens we quite need a map. Have you one that's up to date with the lately happenings in the country?"

Before the Salesman had finished speaking, Tingle had produced a number of parchments, with gleeful pride upon his face – "Oh, you must jest, sir. Tingle has produced precisely three hundred and forty-six new maps, with more to come! These with the major death zones of Termina Field marked in red ink, and the larger road blockages shown in cross-hatches."

The Salesman nodded – "I should like to see it."

He extended a hand, but Tingle only smiled and shook his head – "A man as wise as you, sir, might only take one look at Tingle's map and know it for every drop of ink. I fear I shall have to take forty rupees first."

The Salesman sighed, and seemed about to haggle the price… but did not. He pulled a red rupee from his coin purse, and tossed it to Tingle, who in turn handed over a map.

The Salesman unfurled the parchment and held it close to study it, and the boy stood beside him to get a good look. The map showed what looked like a sick parody of Termina, the grassy fields turned to cratered wastelands, and cutesy skulls bordering the page. Still, it was meticulous – the major death zones seemed to be near the roads immediately outside of town, plus the whole town itself.

The left side of the map, the western coast, was of particular interest, as the whole area had been crossed out, from the bottom of the page all the way northward. The Salesman gestured to it – "Why has the sea been crossed out?"

Tingle giggled – "Why, because there is no more sea, sir!"

The Salesman slowly lowered the parchment – "…what do you mean there's no more sea?"

"Well, not truly, sir, the sea is still there – only rolled back fifty miles and more from the coast. There's no more moon, sir, and with that no more tide – so now the coast is only a hazy stormland." He sucked some meat off a bone.

The Salesman peered at him – "And the Zoras?"

"Oh, dead to a one, sir, dead to a one!" He scraped his empty plate over the fire.

Even as Tingle spoke casually, the boy could still feel the enormity behind his words. A whole race – gone from the world. He had known Zoras in his time. He had known them to be kind, and wise – capable as fighters, but just as soon understanding statecraft and leadership, and with honor flowing through their veins like blood. He'd even been betrothed to one, a long time ago in another land.

Now this country would never see their kind again. That could only be called a loss – their sanity would never be needed more than now, but now it was a thing for legends.

The Salesman seemed to be thinking the same thoughts, staring blankly into the fire, gone from the world.

It wasn't until Tingle pulled out a nail-file and hummed as he trimmed his nails that the Salesman came back to the present, and looked once more at the map. "Here," he said, his voice rather muted now – "Why are the mountains so dangerous now? I'd thought the cold wasn't kind to ReDeads."

"Oh, of course not, sir," Tingle said, blowing on one of his fingernails – "But it's not kind to anyone else, either. There are blizzards rolling down off the mountains every day, now. Snowdrifts near as tall as the Clock Tower once was, I tell you! And the skies are dark and gray with snow. There's little shelter there for our kind, sir – if we were Gorons, we might find a hot spring, and live by the cave rocks. But, of course, we are men. Fleshy, pink men."

The Salesman only nodded – "Hmm… I see Ikana is bustling. The townsfolk fled there, didn't they?"

"So they did, sir – though Tingle was not long there. They are… quite scared, sir. It would not do to try an entry, one couldn't predict their reaction."

"I see. And here, with the swamp. These death zones all end at the same line on the map… do they all stop here, at the swamp's perimeter? I would think the swamp would be teeming with danger."

Tingle groaned – "Ah, but this is where Tingle has failed, sir. I have ventured no further into the swamp than my father's house, at the westernmost bend of the river. The rest is far too dangerous… Tingle would not travel there, were he you."

The Salesman cocked his head – "What's the danger?"

"Well, for one, the masked boy."

This time the boy nearly fell off the log - _another_ enormous statement out of Tingle, and to him it was dinner conversation!

The Salesman seemed ready to leap over the fire – "The masked boy is in the swamp?"

"I fear so, sir. He uses his dark magic to take to the sky over the mount at Woodfall. Just what he is doing there, I cannot say. All I can tell you is that the swamp is hotter and darker than it's ever been, and will not be kind or friendly to you."

The Salesman hadn't heard that part, clearly – "But you're _sure_ he's there? The masked boy has gone to Woodfall?"

Now it was Tingle's turn to solemnly stare into the fire – "…I saw him, sir. At some ten mile's distance, as I neared my father's house a few nights back. He was only a flyspeck against the night sky, but even at those ten miles, I… why, I could still see _both_ the eyes, sir. When he turned and saw me, I could see into both those peering, orange eyes. I landed as quick as I could, and caught no sleep that night from fear."

"That would be him," the Salesman said. He stood and gathered his crockery – "Mr. Tingle, I thank you for your news. Well worth the forty rupees." He couldn't help but grin, the boy could see.

Tingle stared back at him, bewildered – "You mean to _pursue_ him?"

Even in the brightness of the sun, the Salesman seemed lit by the firelight below him – "That mask he wears? It's mine. I should like to have it back."

The Salesman went about gathering the last of their supplies, but as he kicked the fire out, Tingle hurriedly stood and grasped him by the arm – "Sir, if you mean to proceed… you shall need fortune itself on your side, and at all times. _Both_ of you shall need luck to spare. Please, let Tingle give this last gift to you…"

The boy stood beside the Salesman, watching as Tingle solemnly stepped back, seriousness etched across his face… but banished in the next moment, as his eyes bulged and his jaw flapped open – "**_TIIIIIIINGLE TIIIIIIIINGLE KOOLOOOOOOOOOO-LIMPAAAAAAAAH!_**" He leapt and tossed a handful of confetti into the air, seemingly from nowhere.

Before the Salesman could mouth a response, Tingle explained, a giddy smile on his face – "These are the magic words Tingle created himself." He struck a lever on the engine on his back, and his balloon leapt out of its compartment, filling with gas.

Tingle looked them both in the eye a final time – "Don't steal them!" Then he worked the lever once more – flame jetted into the balloon, and he rapidly took to the sky, laughing all the way.

The Salesman watched him float away until he was nearly on the horizon, his mouth gaping the whole time. It took the boy tugging on his arm and pointing southward, into the trees, to get his attention back.

"…y-yes, of course," he said – "The swamp. We must find that thief in the swamp." He gathered the last of his things, and eased onto the autocycle, the boy taking his own place in the sidecar.

Before they left, the Salesman took a final look at the place in the sky he had last seen Tingle – "I hate that man. I truly do hate that man."

Then he gunned the engine, and they were on their way once more.

* * *

**Well, this was a fun one to write.**

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - I love seeing that number click up every time I check in, and I am glad to see that I have regular readers. Keep those reviews rolling in, and give me more suggestions/gripes/favorite moments/flames/anything! And remember to spread the word too!**

**Also, if you guys haven't checked it out yet, I highly recommend Theophany's _Majora's Mask _album - a bunch of high-def, professional quality reimaginings of the Majora's Mask soundtrack, with OOT motifs scattered throughout. It's been of great use throughout the writing process - maybe it'll inform your reading, as well!**

**Finally, a note on the rating - I know I changed the rating up to M, but it might come soon that I bring it back down to T again, just for laughs. I know my writing style can seem kind of extreme sometimes, so for that reason I'm going to wait awhile until I see where the story takes me, so that I don't commit to the rating before I write anything _seriously _M-rated. Feel free to give input on this too, if you're bored.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter Seven: The Swamp

**CHAPTER SEVEN: THE SWAMP**

_"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach… to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world…"_

_-Henry David Thoreau_

They were in the swamp now, there was no mistaking it.

They had cut down the treeless, grassy valley that fed the swamp into the field, where there were a few towering dead trees too far from the water to survive, and moss-coated shacks, small houses on stilts and occasional trading posts or saloons that stood empty now, some burnt out – some so recently as to still smoke.

Their speed through the valley was breakneck, tearing ahead without delay, leaving dusty ruts through the grass behind them. It had only been an hour or two since they'd spoken with the man called Tingle – the sun was still high in the sky, and there were no ReDeads to be found, and yet the Salesman had drove like there was something just behind them, chasing them.

His devotion was clear, his desire to get his property back obvious… no more so than when they hit the swamp proper, and the mud caught in the autocycle's wheel spokes, slowing them and bringing a risk of bogging down entirely. The Salesman cursed and tightened his grip on the cycle's handles, his temper barely contained.

He truly looked possessed now – his fancy purple raiment was splattered now with roaddust and mud, and a beard was beginning to be obvious on his face. He had nothing for goggles, so when they road he had to squint his eyes against the wind – but he seemed not to be squinting now, only grimacing in a heady rage.

Still, the jungle was upon them now – whatever had been left of the road was hidden under tall grass, the clicking of Babas echoing from the underbrush, the trees growing tall and drooping in giant palms. The rocks of the valley took on a pinkish hue, a residue of something in the swamp air – and the heat! It was almost unbearable in here, like a trip through a furnace. Before long, they found themselves in a giant belt of steam, broken only by the more obvious landmarks around them and the blue, cloudless sky above.

There were no buildings to be found in here, the trees too old and strong to be cut, the underbrush too menacing. The only sign of a road was a loose and twisting grassway, sometimes forking off into dead ends.

Here and there, though, there were still signs of civilization. Off in the underbrush, the boy once spied a rusted out contraption – an autocycle not unlike their own, crashed a good many years ago, rotted away until only the body of the machine was left, all the rest stripped by looters or the jungle itself. A few mile markers still stood, some the ancient stone ones that were written in an old measurement, and stood tilted or had fallen entirely – to replace them, modern markers had been carved or branded right into the living wood of the trees. And every now and then, off in little half-hidden forest glades, the boy thought he could see those owl statues, twice his height and older than even the stone mile markers. They were the kind he had found beside the clock tower, and he still didn't understand their meaning.

Eventually, they found themselves grinding through another valley pass, this time coated in vegetation – trees huddled close on either side, the grass grew yet taller, and vines dangled so low they brushed the Salesman's head. The sun was almost blotted out from the canopy, and the path shrank and shrank more, until it seemed that there was no path at all…

But after one final turn, they found their objective. Here the trees had been cleared away, and a soft dirt path reappeared. A wooden sign stood above, arching over the mouth of the pathway – "SWAMPTOWN". No courtesy or decoration stood to welcome them – they rolled onto the path without a word.

The clearing ran the better part of a mile, mostly shrouded in steam – but the sky still stood open, and with it the giant rounded peak of the Woodfall mount, still a few miles off.

The town itself was in disarray – the fences that marked property lines were broken and rotted, the grass heavy and thick, the small cottages burnt out or abandoned. One burned still – the tavern from the looks of it, the alcohol within feeding the fire, the flames licking the palms overhead and a long trail of smoke twisting upward. All the buildings here stood on stilts, but most had collapsed, or at least lost a few of the stilts.

They rolled past a small ranch that stood about halfway through town. The main house had fallen in on itself, the wood charred black, and the barn looked to be missing its entire roof – there was no sign of it anywhere, not a shingle or loose plank. Near the front gate, a starved heifer had fallen into the grass, its ribs standing out like fingers under cloth. A baba had perched itself inside one of the cow's eye sockets, and clicked twice a second, spouting pheromones to attract insects.

It was on like this for most of the town, all the buildings empty, no signs of humanity… until they neared the river. There, a shack still stood, out on the water and on stilts twice as high as any of the other houses. A boat was moored to a dock beneath the shack, and stringlights dangled from the platform the shack sat on, still lit.

The Salesman rolled the autocycle to a stop near the house. He swung off his seat and jaunted down the short dock that connected the shack to the shore – the boy followed. The only way up to the platform was a wooden ladder, which they scaled quickly.

The door of the shack stood before them – before the Salesman knocked, he adjusted his collar and brushed some of the loose dust off of his clothes. He still looked haggard, but perhaps now he might be passable.

He gave three quick taps on the door.

For a moment and more nothing happened – and then a slot in the middle of the door slid open. Out of this slot stuck a gun barrel, long and frayed at the end – a thundergun. It was aimed dead at the Salesman's chest.

"Who's there?" called a voice from inside – a gruff male voice, heavy with a strange accent.

The Salesman quietly moved out of the gun's range – "only a traveler and his associate."

"Well, you're no associates of mine. Take your riding machine and go back where you came from."

The Salesman read the sign beside the door. The boy leaned to get a look as well – "SWAMP TOURIST CENTER", it read. The Salesman spoke – "hardly a good tourist center that turns away travelers in distress. Beside which, we're giving you business – I imagine it'll have been a good while since you saw green."

"If I want green, I can look out the bloody window! Piss off!" the gun slid back in, and the slit closed.

The Salesman shook his head, leaned close to the door, and gave a loud sigh – "ah, so it seems your son oversold your kindness. Quite a shame, I must say."

There was silence for a moment – then the sound of a latch being drawn back… and another… and another… ten different locks in all undone before the door swung open and the man inside stepped out.

He was a burly, sweatsoaked man, taller by a head and more than the Salesman, his muscles bulging and a great gut standing out between the flaps of the leather vest and the belt of the striped trousers he wore. On his head he wore a loose leather cap and a pair of goggles, and he had a thick black set of muttonchops and mustaches. The thundergun was still in his hand.

"You've seen my son?" he said.

The Salesman hesitated – "Tingle, I believe he said was his name." no one could blame him for hesitating – this man couldn't have been more than fifteen years older than Tingle, and there was no family resemblance.

But then the man sighed and sagged – "Cor, I hope he wasn't much trouble to yeh. Tingle's not the name I gave him, a-course – named him Tinan, for me granddad. But then he took off for the city, and I swear, all the strength in him…" he sighed again, and offered a giant hand to shake – "name's Kynoh."

The Salesman shook his hand – "a pleasure, sir. I must thank you for the trouble – I'm only trying to return my associate home." He gestured to the boy.

Kynoh looked down at the boy, and his eyebrows rose – "hmm. Been a while since I've seen a Scrub. They've left this end of the river."

"No Scrubs in the swamp?" the Salesman said – "I'd heard stories about it being impossible to keep them away."

"Maybe a month ago, yes. But now…" he shook his head and gestured inside – "ah, but I'm being crass. Come in. share some fish, if you don't mind it pickled."

* * *

The tourist center was cluttered. Crates of food and supplies lined the reed walls, and a loose bedroll sat before the main counter. In the center of the room was a small pit for a fire, above which the thatched roof had been cut away. The pit was cold now, and they were lucky for it – the room was stifling hot. Not that it was any trouble for the boy – in fact this humidity was quite pleasing to him – but the Salesman seemed to start pouring sweat, and Kynoh wasn't much better.

Kynoh unscrewed a jar full of opaque yellow fluid, and handed a pickled fish to each of them, as bitter to taste as it was to smell. Still, cold food was better than hot in the swamp, it would seem.

The Salesman spat a bone into the firepit – "So what is it you do, Mr. Kynoh? Or did do, before the recent trouble."

Kynoh ground the flesh from his fish with speed, and at once dove his hand into the jar for another – "I was a surveyor, once. Was sent out ere by Mayor Dotour to see about founding a colony. Told him the land was good, so he sent some men to clear a place and build a town. Worked out good, so I settled ere. Wanted to make a trading post, but the mayor writes me, says we need a 'tourist center'. Something to let tuxedoed wankers from the city feel special and welcome, innit. Who am I to say no to the mayor? So I built it, ran it, and burned every letter I got from Clock Town ever again. I had a few pictograph boxes left over from the surveying job, so I hand em out to travelers, tell em to take some snaps of the jungle, see about selling em to the city folks for a few green. Worked out well, till the moon came down.

"After that… well, you walked through it, didn't ya. Lost their minds, they did. Them that didn't run off before, that is. These were decent, proper people before all this nonsense – now, they're going round lighting all the houses on fire. I climb down and draw a line in the dirt, tell em first man who crosses it is gonna regret it. First man crosses it – didn't have time to regret it. No sir." He tapped his thundergun with pride. "After that, they were _quite_ respectful of my property. Except my house, of course… but I've slept ere enough you could call it a home just as soon."

The Salesman nodded. He'd given up on his fish – it was too humid to eat anything with flavor. He went on – "What about the Scrubs, sir?"

"Ah, the Scrubs." Kynoh scratched his beard – "Even before the moon dropped, they were pulling back into the jungle. Used to come out to trade or spit nuts at folks fishing, but things are different now than they was before – the swamp was never safe, gods no, but it's just gotten… _meaner_. We'd had to boil our water the last six weeks, it's been so full of scum. Fella down the road lost a cow when he let it drink from the river – took a fever and dropped, it did. Whatever it was in the water, the Scrubs weren't saying – they scarpered off to their palace and locked the gate. And fed the key to their fat bloody king, I reckon."

"Are they still alive?" the Salesman said.

"Yeah, I hear their drums some nights. Last few weeks, they'd been out catching monkeys."

"Monkeys?"

"Yes. Monkeys. Y'know, furry, look like people, fling their shit at ya? The Scrubs were tying them up and flying them home only a few weeks back. Now I reckon something's happened."

"To the monkeys?" the Salesman said.

Kynoh spat – "What's with you and monkeys? You have monkey friends, do ya?"

The Salesman shook his head – "Not monkeys, no. I'm only looking for someone rather… well, at a distance, he could _pass_ for one, I suppose…"

Kynoh caught his drift, and stared at him – "that flying one, you mean."

The Salesman nodded.

"A skull kid's no monkey. Even I know that. And besides, you really think the Scrubs could put a hand on him? He's a right slippery bastard – works magic none like I've ever seen. Not least considering he can bloody well _fly_."

The Salesman leaned back – "All the same, I'd like to find him. I've business with him."

"Oh, we've _all_ got business with him, don't we. Only dropped a moon on us. If you wanna take it up with him, you'll need to swim out to the mountain, then climb up to the top, and then swim some more."

"He's atop Woodfall?" the Salesman leaned forward again, intent.

"That's where you can see him flying at night. Makes for good target practice, he does."

The Salesman showed his famous grin – "I would enjoy it very much if you could carry us as far as the path to the summit."

Kynoh gritted his teeth – "oh, that's cheeky. I tell you where the mouth to hell is, and you want a pleasure cruise to take a look. That's real cheeky."

"I promise you, your inconvenience would not go unrewarded-"

"Oh yeh, plenty of green for a smart man like you to give me, ain't there? Enough to buy me life back if that flying bitch snatches my head off?"

The Salesman tried to speak solemnly – "Kynoh, I only-"

"Do you fancy me?"

"…what?"

Kynoh stood, his size now the central feature of the shack – "simple question. Do you fancy me? Do you want to go lay with me in a flowery meadow and talk about marriage?"

The Salesman hesitated – "…no."

"Then I'll thank you not to call me by the name my mum gave me. That's for lovers and friends – I know you're not the first, and you're definitely not the second."

Now it was the Salesman's turn to rise – "no, sir. I am no friend to you. I am an associate, offering a business proposition. You carry me into the swamp – I pay you a handsome fee, and help to solve some of your trouble?"

Kynoh scoffed – "how you mean to do that?"

"The skull kid. He has a mask. Have you seen it?"

"Of course."

The Salesman moved close – "That mask is the source of all his power – it's what allowed him to drop the moon in the first place. That mask is _mine_. I aim to get it back. And I'm a man of means, sir – I think it's not hard to imagine me having the resolve."

There was heavy silence, the kind that could only come with contemplation – itself the kind of contemplation that promised an affirmative. Kynoh's face did not change, nor his demeanor – but the boy could see the answer cross his face clear as a smile.

"Alright," Kynoh said – "I'll take you as far as the Deku Palace. From there you'll have to find your own way up the mountain."

The Salesman's grin widened – "Many thanks, sir-"

"There's a catch," Kynoh said – "Any ideas come into your head, any funniness I wasn't aware of…" he lifted his thundergun – "and I will plant this gun up your arse and turn your head into a red flower."

The Salesman nodded curtly – "Fair enough." He sat down again, and returned to his fish.

* * *

**That was a hard one :P sorry my updates have been sparing. It's hot as hell here, not good for writing. Also, sorry this one's a little unpolished - it's late and I'm going on vacation in the morning, so I kinda had to rush through editing. I'll probably fix it up some more when I'm home again.**

**Anyway, DOADD is T again. Hard T this time. Feel like that's a better choice for the tone of the story. If you disagree... meh.**

**As for other stuff... might be a little while till the next update. I don't know how much writing I'll be doing on vacation, and I'm working on original stuff right now as well. I'm still curious to see what you guys would like out of this story, and I do so love getting reviews, so keep spreading the word. Don't be afraid to PM either, I might take some small requests, or sneak in a little injoke here or there.**

**On a final note, Hotline Miami is kickass and you should play it.**


	9. Chapter Eight: Heart of Darkness

**CHAPTER EIGHT: HEART OF DARKNESS**

_"There's mines over there and mines over there too! And watch out, those goddamn monkeys bite, I'll tell ya…"_

_-Apocalypse Now_

The inside of the swamp was too humid even for the boy – the steam that rolled off the water coursed over him and sucked the breath from his chest. He sat with his hands on his knees and tried to breathe deeply, the air thick as mud.

The Salesman had loosened his collar and sleeves, but still was not willing to remove his purple jacket – Kynoh had since abandoned any pretense to modesty and had himself removed his leather vest, sweat coursing down his arms as he manned the rotor of the boat. He was right near the engine, and the heat was likely unbearable, but the boy was too exhausted to feel pity – in fact he felt jealousy, for both Kynoh's and the Salesman's soft sheen of sweat. Scrubs could not sweat, themselves.

The steam here was thick, and shrouded the shores of the river, but the sky above was still visible, and the sun in it – they had plenty of daylight to travel in. Whether having the sun out was a good thing or not, though, still remained to be seen – the fog shrouded most of the sunrays, but it would not be a pleasant thing to go from humidity to harsh, direct sunlight. That would likely cook them all alive.

The Salesman peered over the side of the boat, and gave off a long and pained sigh – "Gods, the water looks a fright. What's wrong with it?"

The boy looked at the water as well, and saw what the Salesman meant – there was a thin scummy film over all of it, gleaming like oil and reflecting colors that had no place in a swamp – namely, a deep maroon, like blood in water.

Kynoh spat – "Yeah, a nasty business, that. Has to do with the trouble at Woodfall, I think – the trouble from before the moon fell. Haven't been able to drink the river water for weeks now, like I was telling ya."

"But this…" the Salesman said, and he stuck a hand into the water and pulled it away, goopy and shining – "Gods, it's hot as bathwater!"

"As bathwater? That's an improvement, actually. A week ago it was so hot you could brew tea in it. Whatever fish there were are gone now, just octoroks left." He leaned forward and called out – "You ever eat an octorok, boy? Not very tasty, I must say. Gummy like frog skin, but all through – no meat to it at all. And you have to eat the whole damn thing if you wanna call it a meal."

He leaned back, beginning to reminisce – "Oh, but if it's a meal you want… ah, I never had any better than six years back. Hosted the mayor's boy – good lad, not weak like his father. Last night he was here, we had a feast for him. Limbet down the road had a beef that rutted one of his purebred dairy heifers, and he was looking to get rid of it. We spitroasted it over a fire ten feet wide, had it with onions, peppers, that green rice they grow out near the country… fed fifty men to bursting, some big as me. Hell, some _bigger!_ I never had better, no sir.

"Now, though?" He gave a sullen chuckle – "Now it's pickled fish, fruit dried to hell, and leaves. You chew leaves, for the water in them. That's your food _and_ drink these days. No game to hunt or fish when I'm out of jars, and even if you can boil the water you wouldn't wanna trust it. But these trees, they filter it through – they're proper old, they don't care what's in the water." Like he was proving a point, he pulled close to the shore and pulled some tall grass from the sand, tossing it to the deck – "There's your supper, lads."

The Salesman grabbed one of the leaves and held it over his mouth, squeezing it to release the water – the boy took his own and chewed it directly. It was pleasant to the taste, but not in a way a human tongue would appreciate.

The boat rounded another bend in the river, skirted by a waterfall and rolled under a purple-stone arch. Now they were truly in the swamp – high brown trees with spindly roots that stood the trunks out of the water, bobtails lining the riverbanks and lilypads drifting by, so big the boy could step on them without their sinking. The fog rolled like waves, heat after heat hitting them and shrinking away, leaving gaps of cool air that chilled them through. There were no sounds apart from water and wind through trees – no animals here, not even babas.

Still, the Salesman kept his rifle on his lap, cleaning it with the same rag he'd used to wipe the scum from his hand a moment before. They'd ran their inventory briefly before getting into the boat – the Salesman still had fifty-odd shots left. Enough to load the gun full five times. The boy couldn't help his skepticism, but the Salesman had made clear that they were safe as long as they came upon no large horde of ReDeads – seeing how few they'd passed heading into the swamp, the precedent seemed set for their travels here.

The Salesman looked worn through, the boy noticed – whatever ambition he'd had even a few hours ago had vanished in the heat and been replaced with exhaustion. Or perhaps the exhaustion was a product of the ambition… regardless, the boy saw that when he wasn't otherwise busy, the Salesman's eyes turned to the great mount at Woodfall, and did not break away soon.

The boy had known anticipation like that before. It was carnivorous, greedy – it promised much and never gave half what it offered, or just as often took something instead. It did not serve to lock eyes with the goal when there was still so much ground to cover-

Kynoh killed the engine – "Did you hear that?"

The Salesman looked to him – "Hm?"

"Listen!" Kynoh grabbed an oar from the bottom of the boat and stuck it into the water to stop the boat's drifting, then pulled his thundergun close, something between caution and panic on his face.

The boy looked out over the swamp, listening for what Kynoh heard – and found it. Somewhere not far off was a sound, a sort of cracking… no, a _clanking_. Three short dull clanks, like a suit of mail rattling, then a beat of silence. Then again. And again.

The boy knew that sound. He unsheathed his knife, gripping it tight…

A splash – a series of splashes, quick and panicked, and getting closer. Then the boy saw it – something hurrying through the water, making haste toward the boat. Before he could call out, it leapt and landed in the boat, scurrying across the floor.

The Salesman aimed his rifle at the creature, but Kynoh pulled the barrel away – "Are you barmy, man? You'll sink us!"

He strode forward and lifted the creature up by one of its rear legs – a gold skulltula, glimmering and dripping from the water, the sections of its carapace loudly clacking and its eight spiny legs spasming.

Kynoh held it out over the water, and held his thundergun to the thing's head – a loud, low blast echoed out, and the creature's head sheared away in tattered pieces. The headless body fell limp, and Kynoh tossed it to the floor.

The Salesman slumped back into his seat, his panic running down. He looped his rifle around his shoulder – "This isn't right. Those are supposed to be nocturnal."

Kynoh knelt before the carcass – "Huh?"

"It means they only come out at night."

"Oh yes, but nights are _scary_ now, aren't they? Even buggers like these are smart enough to only move in the light when it's safe." Kynoh gave a disturbing grin, and at once dug his hands into the creature's back, prying away the carapace and working his hands through dull black flesh and brownish fluid, until he pried loose a thin, flat piece of chitin. He turned it over and examined it, then smiled and tossed it to the boy.

The boy knew what it was – hunters of gold skulltula called it the "coin" or "token", the only part of the creature's carapace that was inside the body. It was a lighter gold than the exterior, round at the top and tapering abruptly into a square near the bottom, with two deep brown fluid sacks in the center – the result was something that resembled a human skull. Ground into a powder and eaten, it was said to increase virility – burnt, it gave off a blue flame.

"Men say it's good fortune," Kynoh said – "Collect enough, they say, and all the gold of their backs will come to you." He seemed ready to go on, but turned his head away sharply, to the near shore… and sighed – "I reckon it's fortune we'll need." He pointed.

The boy turned around – and saw a line of Scrubs along the near bank, livewood bodies and firefly eyes. They held torches in one hand and slings in the other – a Scrub with a sling was as fearsome as the best bowman. Never mind the rumors that they spat rocks – a woodland Scrub might spit them, but a warrior threw them, with terrible accuracy. The boy counted sixteen on the near bank – there were sure to be more hiding.

The boy did not move, nor Kynoh and the Salesman – the time was past to evade the Scrubs. Kynoh muttered – "Should've known it was a trap."

The boy heard their low, wavering whispers – the word "apes" was said more than a few times.

Then Kynoh called out to them – "We mean no trouble here. We're only passing through-"

"You travel the King's river and slay his game," one of the Scrubs called back, and pointed to the boy – "But for our kin that travels with you, we would have gutted you a mile back."

"Please, sir," Kynoh said – "I and other men like me have travelled these waters in peace before. We have brought no war or trouble with us. Only let us pass."

Another Scrub, one with red leaves for hair, called back – "Ape peace is worth nothing to us!"

The Salesman stood, hands raised – "Please, sirs, we are no apes, only men – more, men with a purpose, and one that may serve you well."

The first Scrub called back – "What is your purpose here?"

The Salesman gave his wide grin – "Why, we aim to set right all these recent troubles." He pointed above the treetops to the great mount – "We are surveyors headed to Woodfall, to study the source of this putrefaction in your waters."

The Scrub glared – "You move to step the high mount? You – men or apes or whatever you are, come to trod on our sacred land?"

"Ah," the Salesman said – "but I will say no more to the likes of you. These are the King's waters, after all – I shall speak to none less than the King himself. A royal approval of this expedition will satisfy all parties, I imagine." The Salesman sat, finished.

The Scrubs stared a moment longer, still sorting out what they'd been told – then there was more whispering among themselves, private determination. Shortly after, a number of the Scrubs, including their leader, vanished into the brush – only to emerge from above the treetops, petal-rotors cycling over their heads. Most flew deeper into the swamp – one, the leader, broke off and floated down toward the boat. He landed beside the boy, and addressed Kynoh – "You will proceed to the King's palace at once and present yourselves. If the King is left wanting, you will be at his mercy."

The Salesman continued to grin – "Of course. The mercy of the Deku King is a thing storied even among we men." From the way he said it, you couldn't tell if he was being honest, or just barely biting back hatred.

* * *

They rolled through the water slowly, their captors hovering overhead from their petal-rotors. Here the steam was so thick it was choking, and the iridescent scum of the water rolled over the roots of the tall trees, making the wood gleam like soap bubbles. The trees were thick with foliage, and vines hung so low over the water that Kynoh had to brush them out of the way as he worked the rudder.

Their new companion was a Scrub seemingly of some standing - a half-breed by the looks of him, somewhere between the tall business Scrubs that made up the royal family and the traders throughout the land, and the stout warrior Scrubs, ones like the boy. The leaves on his head were still green, but seemed to be browning underneath – red leaves marked a mad Scrub, beyond reason.

He offered no name, and in fact likely did not have one – only Scrubs who traded with other races took names, and then likely something mannish to be more appealing. What he had instead was a pheromone trail that at once identified who he was, where he was from, his relative age, and his present emotions. It was as distinct as a name ever could be, and the boy knew him at once.

To the best of his knowledge, the boy left no such scent himself – but if this was peculiar, the captor Scrub did not say so.

Kynoh and the Salesman no longer visibly showed their fatigue – it would not do to display weakness around their present company. Still, Kynoh remained drenched in sweat, and the armpits of the Salesman's jacket were soaked through.

The Salesman at present was whittling a mask from a length of tree bark he'd pulled off a tree a few miles back. He could be trusted with a knife because the captor Scrub has taken his rifle, and Kynoh's thundergun as well, and sat with them now on the bow, where he could see the three of them directly. The rifle was outsized for his hands, but it didn't seem to trouble him.

Along with not showing his fatigue, the Salesman had stopped peeking at the mountain over the treetops – too much of that, and they'd look like interlopers.

They passed through a thin bottleneck in the river and emerged into another open swamp – but here Kynoh squinted and leaned forward – "What the hell is…"

The boy turned to see where Kynoh was looking. There was something dangling from one of the trees-

"Oh gods," the Salesman said – "Don't look, lad."

But it was too late – the boy saw the monkey clearly. It was facing away, toward the tree, so the boy was spared a look at its face, but the body was stiff and still, and the head hung down sharply over the length of vine wrapped around its neck. Its bright fluffy fur, white as snow, was stained with the poisonous swamp scum, which dripped down into the water.

The boy looked away, but their captor addressed him – "Why look away, boy? This is a justice given for all Scrubs. These apes acted against your King, and stole his daughter the princess away. It is a mercy to only hang them – but you will see more of our justice as we near the palace."

"Boy," Kynoh said – "you keep your eyes low. I won't have you seeing any of this."

The boy did as he was told.

Things were mostly silent after that. A few shadows rolled across the floor of the boat, and there was an acrid smell in the air, but otherwise the rest of the trip was the same as before.

They beached the boat on a small head where there were no trees – instead, Deku flowers covered the ground. This was another peculiarity of Scrub life, that they did not build homes – when night fell, you found the nearest flower and crawled into it. The only exception was the Deku King and his family, who evidently made their home in a palace.

Kynoh moved to stake the boat rope into the ground, but the captor Scrub stopped him – "There is no time. You will see the King at once."

Kynoh growled – "You mean you want my boat to drift away?"

"We do not yet know if you will be returning from your audience with the King. And if the boat should lose its mooring, we will provide you with a bark."

Kynoh considered this – then shrugged – "Fair enough. And anyway, it ain't even my boat, really. Belonged to the sisters."

They moved through the flowers, following the clearing – though it meant nothing to the Salesman or Kynoh, the stench of the flowers here was like city noise to the boy. The few Scrubs who foraged in this area panicked at the sight of them and backed into the trees, a scent of panic filling the air.

They rounded a curve and came to the walk to the palace. There was water access here as well, there had even been a dock – but now it was a burnt, half-sunken wreck. It was clear the King meant to have no contact from the outside world.

At the other end of the clearing was a large festively-colored gate, with large, old wooden doors to permit entry. There were yet more warrior Scrubs here, both green and red of hair, forming a line to prevent entry. As they neared the gate, the boy could see the motley they wore – mannish hats and jackets throughout, a few in tattered dresses. Most of them were carrying mannish weapons as well, clubs and swords and matchlocks. All these except the royal guard, who held the traditional slings, and who wore pelts around their shoulders.

Fresh white pelts – white as snow.

There was no sign that this crowd was going to make way – until someone at the rear began to cut through them, and called out in a posh voice – "It's all right, it's all right! It's all been approved!"

Emerging from the crowd was a tall business Scrub, refined through and through, a pair of long grassy leaves dangling from his face, his eyes with a sad tilt to them. He was a butler, and bred to look it.

"You will have an audience with the King presently, I assure you," the Deku butler said as he neared the group – "These fellows may be intimidating, but half of them are only here to get a good look – most have never seen men before."

The Salesman grinned – "I hope we're all the stories promised us to be."

The butler nodded – "Shortly, you have the esteemed pleasure of being the only men to ever set foot inside the Deku Palace. I trust that you will give the occasion the utmost respect." He then took a cautious step forward and whispered – "I also must apologize for the horrid entry to the royal estate, what with all the… the monkeys. You came from the eastern fork, around the mountain?"

"Yes," the Salesman said.

"Ah, then you saw… the heads."

"You're bloody well _right_ we saw the heads," Kynoh said, whispering through a nervous grin – "I'm sure that makes you _real_ sorry, don't it?"

"Indeed it does, sir," the butler said – "This lately business is no affair of mine. But I am bound to His Grace, and I will do his will – and presently, His Grace has willed the death of all the apes in his swamp. It is an unpleasant business, but then, so was the kidnapping of his daughter, the Princess - and as His Grace is the highest justice in the land, it is only his place to determine if his subjects the apes will pay a collective penalty."

"Are we apes, then?" Kynoh said.

"That remains to be seen, sir. I certainly hope His Grace will not find you so – to which end, I implore you, _please respect the occasion_."

He turned then to the boy – and though he made no show of it in his face or body, the boy could sense a sort of shock in him – a scent of confusion lingering in the air. Whatever words the butler meant to use died in his mouth, and he turned back to the Salesman.

"I shall lead you to the palace. Please, use the time you have to make yourselves presentable – His Grace has commanded your immediate presence, and as you can imagine, it will not do to look or be anything less than perfect gentlemen."

"You've found the right man for the job," the Salesman said. His grin did not fade.

The butler led them through the gate, and the great oaken doors swung shut behind them.

* * *

**That's that for Chapter Eight. This was actually a fun one to write - pretty long too, and I even planned it to go longer. Always fun to break through writer's block.**

**I have to say, it's very fun getting to write something serialized, especially knowing that I have a consistent following. That's cool beans, and like before, please help spread the word, and leave reviews - good, bad, in between, I don't care. Just let me know it's being read. That's what keeps me going. I highly doubt I'll ditch out on this story like many of the other writers on this site - my updates might get a little rarer, especially with school coming up, but I'll still finish what I've started.  
**

**Incidentally, I might be planning a second Zelda fanfic soon, one that's a crossover between OOT and a more recent game, one that I've come to enjoy just as much. Keep your eyes peeled for it.**

**Finally, if you haven't seen Drive, watch Drive. Drive is awesome.**


	10. Chapter Nine: Dance of the Puppets

**CHAPTER NINE: THE DANCE OF THE PUPPETS**

_"The rusted chains of prison moons are shattered by the sun-_

_I walk a road, horizons change, the tournament's begun-_

_The purple piper plays his tune, the choir softly sing_

_Three lullabies in an ancient tongue for the court of the Crimson King."_

_-King Crimson_

The palace was old, with walls of thick corewood painted in green and red and laminated by years of weathering, that sat over ancient stones dug deep into the swamp dirt, gleaming from the purplish pond-scum. The whole palace was settled in an enclosed alcove, high stone cliffs giving a natural protection to match the artificial walls of the palace.

Within the walls was a great bulbous tower, nearly as tall as the clock tower those many miles back. It looked like a giant wasp's next, except for its rippled exterior and stripes of green paint – a sign of Deku workmanship.

The combination of mannish walls and a Deku inner palace was confusing to the boy, until Kynoh spoke up – "They say this was once a colony, hundreds of years ago. Built a castle or some sort of estate out here, with those great walls you see. Kept out the swamp creatures nicely, until the scrubs came – seeing as they could fly, it wasn't long until the men got turned out. They tore down all the interior buildings, planted gardens, and built that monstrosity there-"

"The old castle was the monstrosity," their captor said – "The old king did it a justice by building the throne room – all his advisors called for it to be put to the torch, but he kept it for a prize. Now these walls hold more dignity than apes such as you could ever know."

"I'm sure we shall never know its breadth," the Salesman said, his grin not faltering – "but surely we might see the interior, that we may instead report that what we see is unreportable."

"That will be known shortly," the scrub said. He prodded the Salesman with the barrel of the thundergun – "Walk on. His Grace awaits you."

The path to the castle walls was over a length of floating wooden pathways, gently rocking in the light currents of the moat – footing was slippery but solid, and they made a brisk pace toward the palace, even surrounded by the royal guard.

As they walked, the Deku Butler spoke to the three of them, still polite even as every other scrub kept a weapon trained on them – "On the subject of His Grace, it is time you heard the protocol for keeping his audience. Upon entering, each of you must present yourselves and bow, and address him 'Your Grace'. If His Grace deigns to speak to you, you will thenceforth address him as 'sire' until your discussion is finished, at which point you will once more bow and address him as 'Your Grace'. It will be no offense if you continue to refer to him as 'Your Grace' through the course of your discussion, however."

"Oh, of _course_," Kynoh said, his anger clear – "Wouldn't want to offend his lordship."

They had reached the walls now, and passed between a pair of guards who kept the door, one standing at rapt attention, the other – the one with red leaves for hair – slouching and breathing heavily, his face twitching steadily and the light in his eyes fading.

The butler went on – "If His Grace makes a demand of you, you must obey at once, no matter how strange or foreign the order may seem. If he demands of you some item of yours, you must give it up at once, and I advise you to make not even the smallest protest. I promise you, if-"

He chose his next words carefully – "…if the nature of the king's business with you allows that we may speak again, see me after His Grace retires and I promise you, we shall pay you full recompense for your alms."

"Oh, it's no trouble," the Salesman said – "it would be an honor most high to assist the great Deku King." There was only sincerity in his voice.

Here the butler stopped in his tracks, eyeing the Salesman strangely… he gave a peculiar chuckle, and looked to Kynoh, a weary dry humor in his tone – "Study how this man handles himself, sir. You should learn much from him about how to deal with a king."

He then looked to the boy – and behind those orange pupilless eyes, the boy could read pain, one that burnt slow and ebbed like a tide, but seemed now to come to the surface. There was something about _himself_ that caused the butler's pain, he could tell…

The butler nodded – "You should do well no matter how this goes, I believe. Only keep your silence."

"Oh, don't worry," the Salesman said, leaking a little dryness into his voice even as he grinned – "He's good at that. I daresay the very best."

The butler nodded again, and led them deeper into the palace, down an open grassy pathway between close, painted walls, to the throne room hallway.

* * *

He was panicking.

The boy had reached for his flamepipes, the ones that had been taken from him somewhere back – finding them gone, he instead place a hand around the grip of the knife that they had let him keep – and all this in a blind panic, so quickly he hadn't even felt himself do it.

He still had seen none of the throne room, the great blocky figure of Kynoh blocked it from sight as they shuffled down the long hall – but the tight wooden walls of the hallway and the stench of torchsmoke planted a biting fear in him, one that pulled his breath from him in short gasps.

The reason was simple enough, and he knew it immediately – he had done this before. Many times. It was an act ingrained in his being, a legacy set by his ancestors so deeply that it came as reflex – but every time just as harsh and potent as the first.

And the first time had not been so far removed from this – it had been deep in a forest, one with a green sprite-filled haze hiding the sky, and the chirping of birds and clicking of babas echoing through the green in the day, replaced by crickets at night. A place peopled, but in accord with the surrounding nature, not opposed to it or attacking it. Somewhere peaceful and serene – in short, the place he'd least wanted trouble to visit.

It had been dark and wooden the first time, just like now. There had been scrubs. He had had a sword then not much bigger than the knife he kept now. These were small similarities to think about – but he did not think about them here, he _felt_ them here, strong and immediate, and all in one moment – there was no chance to think.

This place he went into now was no different than any other dark and dusky grotto he had traversed, no further than the first or the last or any of the ones between. If he closed his eyes now – and for a moment he did, but it was too much to bear – it would feel just the same.

There was a word for these places, one that called down to him through time and summed the quaking terror that welled up from within him, one he had spoken about with the few friends he'd kept, who'd listened with patient and caring silence but without comprehension.

The word was this: "Dungeon".

And the throne room of the Deku Palace was the most terrifying dungeon the boy had ever known.

They emerged into the room, and the boy felt no ease from looking at it straight – empty cages lined the walls, made from tall stalks and branches and lashed with vines. A fire pit blazed in the room's center, the smoke rolling up to the far ceiling and escaping through gaping molded portals.

The scrubs in the room were both layfolk and royal guards, the former huddled in the room's sides, the latter at attention before the royal dais – which was draped in the snowy white pelts of the swamp monkeys, freshly tanned on the skin-side. These rolled over the edges of the dais and were stacked to the left side of the throne – to the right side were piled the skulls, in a heap six feet high, some freshly taken.

The king himself was seated on a throne that seemed grown from a live tree, clutching a flowering scepter. He had the same stout body as most of his kind, excepting the giant bulb atop his head, a man's length across, that shadowed his face and made his eyes gleam from a small darkness.

He was all red – there was not a trace of green shrubbery left to him. He seemed uneasy in his seat, and as the three of them neared the throne, the boy thought he could hear him humming.

The Deku Butler at once assumed a place beside the throne, on the pelt side, and spoke – "Gentlemen, you have the esteemed honor of an audience with His Grace the King Deku, the Just, sixteenth in his line, Lord of these southern swamps and protector of all Deku-kin…" The next title came with just a moment's hesitation – "…and victor over the traitorous apes. Long may he reign."

The butler made a subtle downward motion with his hand – Kynoh, the Salesman, and the boy took a knee. Kynoh and the Salesman said the words – "Your Grace." The boy stayed silent, his fear still too great.

The king's scent was the strongest – a smell like a carrion-flower, so potent it kept flies buzzing around the king's head. This was not a kingly scent – this was loss, and fear, and rage.

The boy had not loosened his grip on his blade, and did not mean to. This was the first peopled dungeon he'd ever traversed – they were always near towns, but never inside them, and always empty of reasoning creatures except the rare business scrub, and a few jarred fairies. It was no comfort, having company – any one of these scrubs could turn on them, and in an instant the three of them would be gone.

This was the source of the boy's terror – the truth of the matter was, dungeons were better handled alone.

The king made no sign that he recognized the three of them, and only went on tapping his scepter and bobbing his head – but as the butler reached to put a hand on his shoulder, he sprung from his throne and moved to regard them. He strutted the dais for a few long moments, eyeing the boy in his terror, and regarding Kynoh's cautious anger and the Salesman's unfading grin.

Then the king turned to the boy once more – "A fine catch, lad! These are the largest apes I've seen yet! How did you manage them?" He let off a loud and bellowing laugh, and his courtiers laughed with him.

Even in his insanity, the king handled human speech better than any scrub the boy had yet seen – he had none of the wavering snouted tone that the others had, and sounded much like a large, jowly man. His tone, though, was venomous, and it made Kynoh shift in his place and looked to the Salesman for support – he only smiled back.

The king tapped his scepter and went on – "Usually, I don't allow the likes of you in my royal chamber, but today is different! My scouts have come ahead of you, to bear you passage and relay your purpose here to me. You are… surveyors, was it not? Which of you is the chief surveyor?"

The Salesman strode forward – "Myself, sire. Namely, my scrub associate and I are the surveyors – he provides me with knowledge of the locale, and I perform my functions on behalf of Mayor Dotour. This other man we hired to give us passage."

"I see," the king said – "So the mayor still lives, even after the calamity? And he has designs on _my_ swamp?"

"Only to cure its pestilence, sire. We shall ever respect the borders of your kingdom, but we will have need of your river's water – the great bay has dried."

"_Yes_, I know, we're not more than fifty miles from the bay – or what's left of it." He planted his scepter on the dais and leaned on it – "So you are a surveyor, coming to measure the sickness of my swamp on behalf of the mayor of Clock Town. Where then, surveyor, are your tools?"

The Salesman pointed to his own head – "Ah, all the tools I'll ever need are here. We aim only to make estimations-"

The king pounded the dais with his scepter – "_YOU LIE!_ I have known surveyors in my time, ape – they always come with their measuring sticks and queerly-shaped bottles to measure my swamp's water or study its creatures. There is no _estimation_ with these apes, they are exact!"

The silence that followed had as much presence as the king's voice. The boy was certain then that his terror was not unjustified.

The Salesman's grin reduced to a smile, and he turned his hands up in repentance – "You're right, Your Grace. I'm no surveyor, nor my assistant. Mayor Dotour lost his head to some lunatics a week or two back, and gave no such order – and just the same, I never met the man anyway."

The king seemed truly hurt by the Salesman's words – "Apish trickery! Just the same kind that took my daughter the princess! It is only the brashness of an ape that could lie to a king's face! An ape cannot speak the truth – the truth would sooner turn to a lie than side with an ape!"

Over calls of "_Kill them!_" and "_Justice!_" from the courtiers, the Salesman still calmly spoke – "But I did _not_ lie when I said we came to fix your pestilence, sire. This is the truth, I swear it."

"And what good is the promise of an ape?" the king said – "Why should I hear another word of this?"

Before the Salesman could answer, Kynoh clamped a hand on his shoulder and whispered – "Boy, if you've just killed us, _I will kill you before they kill me_."

The Salesman shrugged his hand away and spoke – "Because I am no ape, sire – I am a man. In truth, men are not far removed from apes, but the difference is great enough for a man- a _person_ as learned as you to tell."

"You presume to know my own thoughts?" The king laughed – "And how have you determined this?"

"Look around you, sire – look at yourself. You take mannish titles, speak mannish speech, sit a mannish throne in what was once a mannish castle. I say this not to credit man, but to credit _yourself_, and your line's wisdom to spot the… the _distinctness_ of mannish culture over the loose cults of apes that roam the forest, and to do it justice by improving on it. A man is content to sit a chair, a scrub to hold a Deku flower – to take the best of both is _true_ wisdom, Your Grace."

He gave the boy a nervous look after that – it wasn't hard to see he was grasping at straws.

The king waved a hand – "You say fifty things at once, and complement yourself as you complement me. We did not _borrow_ from your mannish 'distinctness' – we used what was _here_. I take no mannish titles, and speak no mannish speech – my custom is the custom of the Deku royal family. Its origin matters not."

"Please, sire, if I may explain. I am not attempting to ground your custom in mine, I am only saying that mankind is not apekind – we are as refined, learned, and intelligent as the Deku-"

"And you say this without proof! You could train any _ape_ to bow to me, but it's no sign they're 'refined'. You must have _proof_, ape. If you wish to vault yourself among us, you must demonstrate that you have learned the refinement that is inborn to we Deku."

The Salesman grinned again, his confidence restored – "For that, I shall need my rucksack."

A few minutes later, a retainer came in with the Salesman's giant pack, dragging it over the floor from the weight. He set it before the dais, then bowed and began to back away, but the Salesman stopped him – "No, please, I shall need you to fetch my item. I keep weapons in the sack, and I would not want the king to feel outside of ease."

The scrub looked to the king for approval, and when he had it, he opened the flap and began to rummage through the pack, his whole head and arms fitting inside. The Salesman guided him – "only reach down into the pocket along the outside, and feel for something smooth and cold."

The retainer found what he was looking for, and pulled it out, holding it high.

Every scrub in the room gasped, the boy with them. The retainer had produced something he knew, something he had seen before but never thought he'd see again.

The first time he had traversed a dungeon, there had been a prize at the end, something granted him by a friend not long before he lost that friend forever. Its beauty had stunned him then in a way he'd never known before, and had carried him through the trials that came afterward.

It was a jewel, a round flawless emerald, nearly transparent but still deep in color, set in a loose golden half-frame.

It was unique, none like it in all the world – and yet, he had in his travels gathered a ruby and a sapphire to match its beauty, and brought the three to an ageless temple, and set them in places carved for them in the altar… and in the last moments of peace he'd ever know, he'd watched as a door never before opened slid back, clearing a path to eternity.

Its purpose had been great and awful, and when the boy's business in that land had finished, he'd hoped never to see that emerald again – but now the retainer had pulled it from the Salesman's rucksack, where it had rested next to the frying pans and spare shots, for months and more from the looks of things.

The Salesman saw the boy's shock – "Oh, don't look at me like that, lad. You weren't using it anymore."

The king bounded to the front of the dais and took the emerald from his retainer. He held it up, regarding it in the firelight – "I have never seen its equal – this is Deku craftwork, but the style is foreign to me. And I know not this maker's mark, these three triangles on the bottom. Still… its beauty is remarkable." He looked to the Salesman – "Where did you find this?"

The Salesman shook his head – "As you have just told me, Your Grace, the origin of refinement matters not - only how it is used is of import. And I hope you shall see my meaning in presenting this to you."

"Which is?"

"That I am no ape. I cannot speak anymore for all of mankind, only for myself."

Kynoh hid his face and whispered to himself – "Oh, you cheeky _bastard_…"

The Salesman went on – "Anyone could spot the beauty in a jewel like this, even an ape. Its color, its cut and design are a reflection of universal beauty. But surely, _surely_ the fact that I knew the finest of all Deku craftwork, that I knew to hold onto it and to present it where it would be _most_ admired, is proof that I am a man of refinement – that you and I both, Your Grace, are persons of refinement. Surely, we can now meet on the level."

The king fell back into his throne, setting the emerald down in his lap – "What is it you want?"

"Only what I have said. We have come to cure your pestilence. Rather, to kill its source – when this is done, I believe the swamp should clear shortly afterward."

"How do you mean to do this?"

"Surely, sire, your scouts have seen the creature that flies above the mount at Woodfall?"

One of the retainers, an aged warrior scrub, presented himself – "This is true, Your Grace. There is talk among the scouts that there is a monster that leaps from the mountain and flies as birds do, and pierces both fog and night with its orange eyes. Even the strongest and truest among us have sworn that they have seen it."

The king seemed on the verge of collapse, weary through – "And you believe this flying beast is the source of the pestilence?"

The Salesman nodded – "I would stake my life on it, sire. He has intimate knowledge of the secret sciences, of magic if you would call it that- he can toy with it as a child does with dolls. I know beyond doubt that he is responsible for the lately troubles in each corner of the country. He has dried the ocean, dropped the moon, and poisoned your swamp."

"How does he gather this power?" the king said, enraptured.

"He wears a mask, one charged with all the ancient animosity of Termina and its menfolk." The Salesman said, his earlier intensity returning to his eyes – "I studied it for years, sought it for just as many – I know it and the force behind it better than any man alive. I had only just obtained it, and planned to bring it back to my homeland for further study when it was stolen from me. The mask is _mine_, sire – I aim only to reclaim my property. As for what is behind the mask, Your Grace… you may do with that what you please."

The king was leaning forward, spellbound like a child hearing a bedtime story – the butler and the king's men seemed uneasy from his demeanor.

The Salesman went on – "He is a skull kid, sire. You have no skull kids in this country, I take it? This land is better for it, then. They are thieves and cutthroats all, each more rotten than the last. They stink like death and wear patchwork clothes sewn from rat skins, and some even wear the beaks of large birds over their mouths – just why, no one can say. They are a scourge on my land, sire – and as we have all plainly learned this past month and more, just one can lay a land to waste with its scheming."

He stepped forward, and hammered his point – "They are _apes_, Your Grace. Apes beginning to end, and the worst kind at that. They have no pelts to take for a prize, and not even the barest sense of loyalty or community. You hate the apes that took your daughter, Your Grace, and rightly so – but this ape took your land, and your _pride_. Only let me have the mask, and I swear to you, you shall have a hunt like no other."

The king was seething with fury, tears rolling from his eyes, his whole body shaking, the stench in the air taking a musk of rage. He sprung from his throne and bellowed – "MUSTER THE SOLDIERS! WE SHALL HUNT TONIGHT!" He strode from the dais and vanished behind the throne into the interior of the palace.

The throne room fell into a general commotion, the retainers moving to fetch weapons and prepare the king's litter. From the disorder, however, emerged their captor, rage written over his face. He addressed the Salesman – "You toy with the king! You wink at him and feed him deception, and give him baubles to sate his wisdom!" And on like that.

The Salesman only smiled down at him, locking eyes with the scrub until the butler came and put a hand on his shoulder, sending him away to do his duty.

Now it was the butler's turn to speak – "Sir, I… I must say, I hope there is no deception in any of what you have said. I know the king is hardly what he once was, but he is-"

"The king is brash, and at the head of an army," the Salesman said – "This will serve me to fetch my mask. And there is no deception in that – the mask is mine, and I will have it back."

The butler bowed – "In that case, I bid you good evening. I must attend to His Grace, and afterward I shall hold the palace in his absence." He turned and followed the king into the inner palace.

The Salesman stood a moment longer, staring off into space – then he went to his rucksack, and fetched his shortsword from within, and set to sharpening it with one of the smooth rocks from the firepit. Kynoh went to join him, certainly to complain some more.

The boy released his grip on the knife, and felt the rest of his body unwind as well. All had ended better than he ever could've hoped for, and with designs to aim for something even better.

Perhaps, he imagined, their troubles might even be over soon. Perhaps they would slay the skull kid at Woodfall, and this confusion could be behind them.

One could hope. In fact, one could only hope.

* * *

**And that's Chapter Nine. This one was even more fun to write than the last - it got a little shaky at a few points, but I stitched it together pretty well. I'm actually proud of it as a piece of writing, not just as fanfic - I have to say, I didn't expect to get this involved in the work.**

**Anyway, thanks for continuing to support this, and keep sending in new reviews. Let me know what you liked.**

**As for the piece itself, I think I should make it clear that even with all the fun I'm having, my updates might get a little more infrequent - it might get to the point where it's only once or twice a month. It's only that I'm going to be doing writing for school, other homework, my own original writing, and maybe that other fanfic I'm planning, but all of this is going to fall before the worst timesink of all next month. Namely, GTA V is coming out, and I'm going to forsake pretty much every social obligation I have to get into it. **

**Don't worry, though - I'm not one to abandon a piece when I get into it. I see it to the end, or not at all. It helps, of course, to know that you're still reading, and that you're getting other people interested too, so keep spreading the word, and keep reviewing and dropping me messages!**

**Till next time.**


	11. Chapter 10: Woodfall

**CHAPTER TEN: WOODFALL**

It was near dark as the king's party wound around the spider house and approached the path up the mountain. Stout trees thick as houses rose from the scum-filled water, and the air was heavy with Deku life.

The boy led Kynoh and the Salesman – for purpose of not offending the king, it would not do to have a man leading a scrub. The boy had also had his pipes returned to him, though empty of fuel and useless for the time being.

Even over the ground, the path was difficult – here and there it gave way under one's feet, the grassy surface only a thin covering over water. Open patches of quicksand stood about, and from the conversation of the other scrubs, the boy gleaned that they had recently been used to dispose of monkey corpses – he didn't want to imagine a quicksand patch where you had company.

The king's party was made up of some eighty scrubs, green and red in equal number, clutching slings and firearms both. The king was carried in his litter by four warriors, still turning the emerald over in his hands. The scrub that had captured them kept near the side of the litter, still holding the Salesman's rifle.

This was likely the sixth straight hour that the Salesman had been grinning, his smile faltering neither from the presence of enemies nor from the heat – now so strong that Kynoh had removed his vest and his leather cap, showing a glorious bald head.

It was hot even for scrubs, now – the steam that rolled from the mountaintop was choking, and many of the strong ones at the front of the party had to stop and catch their breath at places along the path. The climb would be even worse.

Through all this, the king sat transfixed on his jewel, sipping water from crisp leaves and twirling a petal-rotor to keep his face cool. The litter itself was gigantic, and had to be to accommodate the size of the bulb on his head, along with room for another royal just as big. The thing was nearly the size of a horse carriage – just how it could be carried by only four scrubs the boy couldn't reason.

Before long, they had exited the muggy swampland and begun the trek up the side of the mountain. The sun was low in the west, obscured by the fog over what was once the bay – the heat did not falter, however, as its source was now the mountain.

Their pace was quick around the first few turns of the path, over small purple stones and a path through the grass carved by years of pilgrimage to the temple atop the mountain. Gaps over waterfalls were bridged with lengths of swampwood, and the path was wide enough that the king's litter was at no risk of going over the edge – there were few obstacles before them.

Ten minutes later, they were at a vantage above the treetops, allowing a view of the swamp for miles – here the boy paused a moment to catch his breath, and look out over the ground they'd covered. The northerly view was empty and daunting – dark green canopy obscuring the horizon, above which loomed the distant peaks of the tallest mountains in the north. Once there would have been the lights of the town to complement these, chief among them the rotating beacon atop the clock tower shining out, visible for miles. Now it was only dark, and getting darker – there was nothing worth seeing.

When the boy returned to his spot, the captor scrub gestured to him – "His Grace would have a word with you."

The retainers paused a moment to allow the boy into the litter, then resumed their trek, their pace no slower from his added weight.

The cramped state of the litter was made up for with cushions and delicate silks, and the pile of leaves beside the king's seat was thick and entirely green. The king eyed his emerald, waiting for the boy to settle.

Silence hung between them, the boy unwilling as always to break it. It was hard sitting with the pipes strapped to his back, and he was unwilling to shift them for fear of looking crude. Instinct brought his hand near the pommel of his knife, but common sense pulled it away again.

When the king's focus on the emerald died, he looked up at the boy – "Are you from my swamps, lad?"

The boy shook his head.

The king turned the emerald to him – "Is this?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Are you from where this is from?"

Now a nod.

The king leaned back – "Down the coast, perhaps? I know there are Deku in other countries than Termina."

He shook his head once more.

"But you are from another land, yes?"

He nodded.

"Just as well. I should have liked to travel, in my youth. Was always the kind for exploration. Adventure. Surely you can understand that, you are both young and travelled."

A nod.

"It had always been an impulse of my line, I fear – but then it may be an impulse of all royalty. A bird born in a cage may wish for freedom. I say, I never knew my lord father's fear for my safety until I had my own child, my princess, and I saw my damnfool impulse passed on.

"It is not easy, lad. These swamps are my land, by laws of man and Deku both, and in them I rule all, but to have a child out in it, running down paths you knew in your own youth, having adventures of their own… even a king feels powerless before that. No land is so vast as the one you earn by blood, and none so fearsome and alien.

"In truth… and I trust you will keep my confidence, lad. I trust you shan't utter one word of this to another."

The boy didn't need to nod that time.

"In truth… I should have liked not to be a king. This I think I have always known, deep inside me. It has not made me any less a ruler, any more lax in my judgment or consideration. I know that I _am_ a ruler, and I aim to be just, merciful, and stern, and above all good, a king to make his subjects proud. But had I the choice, I would never have come to this. I would never have sat the throne.

"This is a truth I cannot write or record, it would taint my legacy to tell this. But it is true, and I tell it to you freely, as an outsider. I have never been one for stricture or decree, for throne-sitting or even worse throne-_keeping_, for intrigue or trade or just wars or the king's peace. All I despise. All I would not wish even on them I hate.

"My own daughter, the princess… I know she is dead, lad. I know I will never see her again, and I shall never been happy again for it. But that is a kinder end, and a finer thing for my subjects to remember, than a life on the throne. This is my dilemma, lad – more than anything I would have her back, but this life is a cruelty as terrible as death. I would rather she had not been born than be born a princess.

"It is that impulse, lad. It is that need to move, and see, and do. My daughter had more courage than I could ever hope to gain – she died following her will, while I sat in my chambers and had my men kill her kidnappers for me.

"Freedom I desire, and freedom has always been before me, just beyond reach. In truth, I will not be long remembered – my legacy will fade, along with my father's, and all our ancestor's back to the beginning of history. But this will be no loss – I do not care who remembers me.

"It is the _land_, boy. My land. Not just by birth, but by _spirit_. These swamps, which I ran through as a child and rule with age… this has always been my land. I have repulsed its enemies and kept its peace, so that they born free may enjoy it as a garden of delight, even as I must grow old and die in my palace.

"Boy, we are _Deku_. You know our words – we remain until the end. This swamp stood before Clock Town, before Ikana, before even magic – these trees knew the dust this earth was built from, and were seeded by the great lords.

"Lad, you are capable, your man is capable, and we travel now to kill the greatest foe this land has ever known. I hold you in compact. As regent of these swamps, I charge you to ensure their survival. They shall remain. Even after you and I and all others are gone, these swamps will remain, so that children born free might know all their hidden pleasures.

"This land will remain until the end, lad. Until the end."

He passed a leaf to the boy, who chewed it thoughtfully, the water rolling down his throat and chasing away some of the heat.

He leaned from the side of the litter to spit out the stem – when he leaned back, the king held the emerald before him, just as he had the leaf. "Take it, boy," he said – "there is no joy for me in it. We go now to hunt, not to consort."

The boy regarded the emerald a moment, seeing the light shift through it in its old familiar way – he took it and stowed it in his belt.

Just what the king had in mind for him, he would not say – he fell silent, peering out through his silks over the wilderness, until it was obscured by fog.

In not too long a time, this king could be an enemy of his – even if his business with the Salesman would end here tonight, he could not be bothered to stay in one place for too long. It was only his nature – the same nature the king had described. He was no better suited to sit or keep a throne or a land than the king was.

He had no way of telling this, though, so he kept his silence, as he always had.

It was another two hours up the Cliffside before they neared the peak. Here the steam was so thick it seeped into the litter and clouded the air between him and the king. There was no helping the heat anymore – here it was constant and fluid, and no amount of water or ventilation could banish it.

The boy climbed from the litter and peered over the cliffside – all but the furthest fields were hidden by fog, and the tail end of the hunting party could be seen on a curve of the path beneath them, torches cutting through the dark.

Kynoh looked like he'd lost a fight, but the Salesman was still pleasant on the outside – he'd even planted a pipe in his grinning mouth. Still, that earlier mania had returned to his eyes – his gaze was locked on the lip of the crater, and his anticipation was clear.

The boy felt it almost as much as he did – it truly could end here. All this pain and confusion, all the suffering of the last month, could be undone within the hour.

They were only a bend or two more from the entrance to the caldera, and the path here was easy, old worn cobblestones allowing purchase in the ground. Old Deku relics were carved into the living rock of the mountain, showing ancient forest gods known by different names to earlier generations, offerings heaped at their feet. Unlit torches stood along the cliffside.

This the boy knew as well as any other part of a trial – for all the dangers of a dungeon, they always had an exit, a final room, and there was never any confusion when you came upon it, no more challenges to bar your way.

The boy slid past the panting scrubs and went ahead of the party to scout. That time off his feet had saved his energy, and he used some of it now, sprinting up the path, stopped by no one. He passed by other idols and fetishes, Deku and mannish script on their plinths – he paid none of this any mind.

Around one of the final bends in the path, he saw the statue, and stopped in his tracks. This idol he could not ignore.

It was one of the same owl statues as before, the ones hidden in the underbrush, with outstretched wings and unknown purpose… except that this one had lost its head. In its place was a wiry round cage of brown vines. Set in the front were two small carved discs of tree branch, showing the rings – these passed for eyes. Two sticks jutted from the top of the cage, and a number of dry leaves from its bottom – it was a crude copy of the mask. The Salesman's mask.

The boy felt something between revulsion and fear seeing the display – there was only one person who could have made this fetish, and he was within a mile of the boy at that very moment.

The boy lifted the fetish away, and when the party caught up he handed it to the Salesman, who only chuckled and tossed it to the ground, crushing it underfoot – "I've no need for a copy when the real thing is so close."

He leaned down and whispered, none of his previous enthusiasm in his tone – "Be on your guard, boy, and don't mistake my manner for calmness – a fight may come soon, and if it does it will not be an easy one."

The boy finally unsheathed his knife – its eight inches did little to calm him.

They came to the final length of the path. Before them was an ancient stone gateway, and a tunnel carved through the wall of the caldera itself. Here the party halted, and the king's scouts proceeded into the darkness, to make the way clear.

Ten minutes later they returned, shock across their faces. One of the king's guards went to question them, but they said nothing, even when addressed individually. One leaned against the wall and buried his head in his hands – another fainted outright, and none of his fellow scouts went to his aid.

With nothing to be done, the king emerged from his litter and turned to his men – "We shall proceed with caution. Steel yourselves for what you will see – whatever it may be, it is nothing pleasant."

He summoned the Salesman and Kynoh to his side – the boy took his other flank, alongside the captor scrub. With a contingent of guards before them, they proceeded into the tunnel.

* * *

The tunnel was dank and dripping with moisture, and the boy felt a twinge of the same fear from earlier, that potent dungeon fear – but a moment later it vanished. They passed through a dip in the tunnel that hid its other end from view, and the light ahead of them cleared, visible to all, shining over the heads of the guards in front. It was distant now, only a pinprick of light – but solid red. A red that had no place in a swamp.

The boy proceeded as if hypnotized, his eyes fixed on the light, watching it grow larger and larger before him, eventually taking texture and consistency, oranges and yellows swimming in it – then a hint of its form, too terrible to consider…

Then he was inside the caldera, on a stone viewing platform older than time, staring at the other end of the crater a quarter mile away, disbelieving all he saw.

It was an eye – a giant eye, red with magic rage, half-submerged in the water of the crater lake. A jetblack pupil the size of a tower was its center, the fires yellowing around its circumference. The water around the eye boiled and steamed, but the eye was no less visible, and no less piercing – the eye still looked seeing.

The rest of the caldera was shattered – what few trees were left were charred through, without much life left in them. Jutting lengths of brick ruins stood from the waters, the remnants of the Woodfall temple. The bloated corpses of swamp animals drifted on the light currents, untouched by any predators.

No one spoke – no one could speak. All were fixed on the eye, their unbelieving faces bathed in its light.

When the shock had passed, Kynoh managed a few meaningless words – "…blimey. Should've brought my picto box."

The king fell to his knees – "What is this? This thing, I… _what is it?!"_

The Salesman's grin had vanished with the shock of seeing the eye – now he collected himself, and spoke to the king – "Another of the skull kid's… jokes. This eye… you saw the moon not long before it fell, did you not, Your Grace? That glaring face peering down over your kingdom? This may be its eye. More than likely, when it crashed it fragmented, scattering debris – this must be where its eye landed. A ridiculous notion, I know… give me just a moment, and I'll make certain."

He produced a telescope from his rucksack and peered down into the water near the eye – "Yes, it is! Do you see in the water down there, those blue flecks? Moon's tears!" He lowered the scope and made a noise of sheer amazement – "Enough to fill all the banks of a country to bursting."

The king moaned – "What worth is it to us now? My kingdom is ruined! My lands, my _home_… It was meant to outlast all others! It was meant to _remain until the end! _What kind of end is this? What kind of…"

Rage shone through him – "WHERE IS HE?! WHERE IS THIS BASTARD APE?!" He sprung to his feet and ran to the edge of the platform – "FACE ME, APE! _FACE THE KING YOU HAVE CROSSED!"_

And then, drifting up as peacefully as a leaf on the wind, the skull kid appeared from beneath the ledge.

The boy gasped.

He looked just the same as he had that morning above the town, atop the clock face – he wore the same red and brown motley, not a fleck of dirt on it. He kept the same company too, as his purplish fairy drifted up to join him, circling his head silently.

And of course, there was the mask – those rows of jagged triangular teeth, eight along the bottom and two tall ones on the top, of ivory painted with iridescent dyes that caught the light and shined in rainbow colors. The careful lines and layers of paint, reds and blues running across a piece of ancient wood carved in the shape of a piece of heart.

And the eyes. They looked just the same as the eye across the crater, shining with their own harsh orange light – there was no paint there, no artifice. It was life in those eyes.

Life, and the will to end it.

The king's rage had disappeared, replaced with toothless surprise. He took a single cautious step back, turning his head to his men but not taking his eyes off the skull kid.

A moment passed without action, and another - then the Salesman strode to the captor scrub, snatched the rifle out of his hands, and stepped up to the skull kid, a hand outstretched – "I'll have my mask back."

The skull kid cocked his head at the Salesman, who only stared back, looking for all the world like a stern parent taking a toy from a disobedient child.

Another empty moment passed.

Then the skull kid raised an open hand, holding it halfway between his own face and the Deku King's. He flexed each of his fingers – the boy could hear them cracking.

He shot his arm forth, plunging it into the giant bud atop the Deku King's head. The king sputtered and spasmed, his whole body going tense. His men did much the same, stunned.

The skull kid twisted his arm, and the bud burst open, noxious and foul-smelling fluids spraying all who stood near, little specks of luminescence scattering in the air. The king's knees gave, and he toppled over the edge into the water.

The captor scrub pulled his sling and loaded a nut – "_MARK!"_

All the other scrubs loaded their slings, and the air filled with the sound of spinning cloth. The Salesman ducked out of the way.

The skull kid swung his arms wide, and like a fish on a line flew back away from them, out over the crater, with incredible speed, his fairy right beside him. He jutted his arms and legs out and knocked his head back, making a star shape of himself – and then he screamed.

The boy found the ground quickly, his hands over his ears, the pain unbearable. The same was true of all the others around him – all those slings fell empty on the stone, their keepers with them, every hand covering every ear.

As the sound winded away, the boy opened his eyes once more – just in time to see the skull kid spiral up through the air and shoot away like an arrow, vanishing over the lip of the crater, toward the horizon.

A shot rang out, went wide – the Salesman lowered his rifle and screamed after the skull kid – "YOU THIEVING BITCH! GET BACK HERE!"

When after a moment it was clear the skull kid was gone, the Salesman turned to Kynoh, his mania obvious now, and clasped him on the shoulder – "What direction is that?! Which way did he go?!"

Kynoh brushed his hand away – the boy noted also that in the confusion he'd reclaimed his thundergun from the captor scrub – and answered – "Northeast. Upstream."

"What's upstream?!"

Kynoh glared – "You know what's upstream."

The Salesman quaked with anger, turning back to where the skull kid had disappeared – "You run, then! You run to Ikana, and hide in your tombs! We'll follow you, you hear me?! _WE'LL FOLLOW YOU!_"

There was a sound then – an echo, deep and menacing, from across the caldera. The boy turned and saw – the eye was beginning to cave in, its fires pitching and escaping its surface. Then the outer layer fractured, and the whole thing imploded into the water, sending out waves across the crater.

The waters lit up, as if by the same fire, painting the whole crater red. The water cleared, all its scum burning away – and one could see figures moving within, shapeless and unmoving first, but then writhing and taking form, developing limbs and features - until, finally, the first few stood.

And moaned.

The Salesman seemed to lose all his strength at once – "Oh gods. ReDeads."

Kynoh gritted his teeth – "Shit!" He cocked the hammer of his gun, trying to find a shot he could place – but more ReDeads rose from the waves, and more, until in the next moment they were packed shoulder to shoulder in the crater below. They began to shuffle toward the stone platform, the nearest ones clawing its sides.

Kynoh turned to the Salesman – "Oi, dandy man!" He jerked a thumb at the mouth of the tunnel. The Salesman nodded, and started toward the gate, shouldering through the panicking scrub soldiers.

Kynoh patted the captor scrub on the back – "Good luck, mate." He followed the Salesman.

The boy went last, grabbing his knife from the ground and taking a final look at the throngs of dead below him, their twisted bodies snaking around each other, their empty eyes locked on him and the other scrubs.

He had known ReDeads before, he had faced them in tunnels and catacombs many times. He had even known them in numbers, on the burnt-out streets of ruined cities – casualties of the war he'd failed to prevent, coming back to face him.

But this… this was too many, and he loved this land too little to stand and fight for it just now.

The boy turned and followed his companions into the tunnel. Behind him, he heard the captor scrub call out once more – "_MARK!_"

Before long, he started to run.

* * *

**Alright alright, we're in the double digits. This one was pretty weak when I wrote it, but thank god for editing - it's so much fun to layer in all that detail the second time around. Almost makes up for staying up late. Not that I wouldn't do that anyway.**

**So school is kicking my ass right now, and I do have a lot on my plate, but as you can see from this update, I haven't forgotten you all. I'm glad I managed to punch out what I think is one of the most important chapters of the story before I got too deep into my schooling - once again, while I don't plan on abandoning this story outright, updates are probably going to be pretty sparse until I get some free time.**

**Having said that, I'm glad I can still have fun doing this, and I'm glad I've got such a devoted following. Keep it up with your reviews, and keep spreading the word. I'll see about getting another chapter done before September is out - don't count on it, but don't count it out either.**

**In other news, five days till GTA V. So excited. Hope those of you who are getting it will like it too.**


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